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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25912387">Under A Blue Moon I Saw You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeldunne/pseuds/angeldunne'>angeldunne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (2012-2013), DCU, DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Batjokes, Batman - Freeform, Batman Hates The Joker, Because Joker Loves It And So The Fuck Does Bruce, Begging, Biting, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Coming In Pants, Crying, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Darkfic, Dirty Talk, Dominant!Joker, EXTREME DADDY ISSUES, Emotional Manipulation, Gentle Kissing, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Hurt Bruce Wayne, I Mean It He’s Horrendous Here, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Marking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not really though, Poor Bruce Wayne, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Role Reversal Kind Of But Not Really, Rough Kissing, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slut Shaming, Stockholm Syndrome In A Way Where Nobody's Kidnapped?, Submissive Batman, Submissive Bruce Wayne, The Joker - Freeform, Top Joker (DCU), Verbal Humiliation, bruce wayne NEEDS A FUCKING HUG WHAT THE FUCK, dark!fic, dominant joker, pain!kink, the joker is not nice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:41:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>30,333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25912387</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeldunne/pseuds/angeldunne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some years after Rachel's death, Bruce is still heartbroken and lonelier than a motherfucker. He's so, so tired. Joker can fix it. He just has to let him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>503</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>bottom!Bruce</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I can never find fics in this fandom that satiate my very particular needs. I wanted to see subby Bruce Wayne and Dom Joker cause, shit, Bruce is NEVER subby. </p><p>Therefore, this is my very self indulgent fic about Bruce allowing somebody else to take the lead in his life. It's my second fic for this fandom and is just as downright filthy as the first one but there are a lot more feelings. Because this is so self indulgent, there may be some ooc shit happening. This is a standalone/oneshot, but I may write another chapter, depends on how I feel and also if anyone else wants it. Also, I wrote this in one sitting and it isn't edited. </p><p>BTW to anyone that cares, I see this pairing as The Dark Knight Joker and Batman, Joker being about 6'4 and Bruce being 5'10. Yup. Enjoy and Comment!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>He laughs, an ugly, cracked thing. It rings through the hallway, bouncing off the walls and ringing in Bruce’s ears.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. <em>No</em>.</p><p>“Batsy, is that you?” Bruce winces, clenching his eyes shut, tight, tight, tight until his eyelids cry from the strain. The darkness of the hall seems just that much more claustrophobic now and he finds that the only way to ground himself is by keeping his eyes on the sliver of moonlight that streaks in through the slim windows. Another shrill laugh sounds and shit, he really wishes he’d allowed that running bastard to just <em>be</em>.</p><p>The thing about Bruce that most journalists have long speculated is that he has a hero complex that runs deeper than Batman. He likes to save people, sure. He loves to see the look on their faces once he’s done a good job, eviscerated whatever the fuck danger they were in. It makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. Yet, for him that isn’t the best part. No, the best part is bringing the scum that dared to commit any sort of crime on the soil of Gotham to their knees. Or at least it used to be the best part. It used to make him whole--the sight of a lesser, weaker man sniveling like a coward beneath him. These days it feels like he’s supposed to be reaping the firm, supple fruit of a seed he planted months ago. Like he’s up on a ladder, in an apple tree, stretching up, fingers brushing the fruit yet still unable to grasp it.</p><p>Fuck, it’s an itch he can’t scratch.</p><p>Even when the guy is laying in a pool of his own sweat, piss and blood. Nose bent and bleeding, mouth agape with a thin line of drool pooling below him. Even when he can have the fruit. He can roll it around in his hands, stare at it, bite into the damn thing and feel the juices running down his face. Sure, he can live with himself for a while because, <em>fuck</em>, he’s done it again. He’s done his job and people are proud of him. People are cheering him on. He feels like he’s actually done something worthwhile, and he actually <em>matters</em>. It’s been harder to convince himself of that lately.</p><p>Tonight was supposed to be an opportunity for him to feel important. There hadn’t been a crime in Gotham for two months. Not even a fucking purse snatcher. Bruce had begun to fidget at home, gaining more than a few concerned looks from Alfred, though he hadn’t said anything. If Bruce had to guess, Alfred understood the way he worked. He understood what it all meant to him beneath the mask and suit. Still though, as Bruce continued his regularly scheduled program, following his everyday routine. Waking up at the crack of dawn, stretching the tautness out of his body, bathing and eating. Going for walks. Conducting business per usual at Wayne Enterprises. Everything was normal for Bruce. For Batman though…</p><p>The decision to go on a walk at half past midnight was sporadic, out of character for Bruce. Yet.</p><p>He felt like it was the right thing to do. He’d been so goddamn bored out of his mind with numbers and business and <em>The Price is Right</em> and fucking <em>Family Feud</em>, that he just needed something different. Anything different, really. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going when he started walking, maybe just around the block and back. Then he’d seen her. He’d done a double take, too. It’d been a long time since a woman made him do that—since anyone had, really. His interest in not only women, but people on the whole had dwindled significantly since Rachel’s death a little over five years ago. But this woman.</p><p>Perched against the bus stop sign, about 20 feet away, he couldn’t see her face. Long, bare legs ran into heels he could only make out the silhouette of, from underneath a short dress that dazzled in the moonlight. He bit the inside of his cheek at the sight of her, some mysterious woman, as she raised a cigarette to her lips. Just like the rest of her, her hair was long, wavy, flowing in the breeze of the night. He didn’t quite understand why this woman whose face he couldn’t even see, was so encapsulating.</p><p>His mouth watered. He bit his cheek. Stuffed his hands deeper into his slacks. Realized that the front of his pants had grown a bit tighter.</p><p>In all honesty, Bruce had never been one for casual sex. He’d always loved the women he made love to. Maybe that’s what made this mysterious woman so appealing to him—the prospect of going over to her, convincing her back to his place and having sex with her. A different sort of sex, the kind where he didn’t have to love her. Maybe that’s what made him take a step forward, as he eyed the smoke that wafted its way up, up, up into the night sky from her cigarette.</p><p>He didn’t know.</p><p>Sweat had begun to pool at his neck, in the curve of his collarbones, cooled only by light wind. He felt jittery, all buzzing energy and short breaths as he walked towards the woman. Only the thought of her being scared by a strange man approaching her at this hour of night caused his steps to stutter, presented a chance for some hoodlum to whoosh past him, leaving him in a state of whiplash as he stumbled. Amid him trying to correct his footing, a warm flush taking over his face, anger at the person who’d nearly thrown him to the ground bubbled inside of him. His head whipped up, eyes searching for the fool. Then he realized two things in quick succession; that <em>fool </em>wasn’t just a fool but was the purse snatcher he’d found himself praying to come about on most nights he was bored out of his mind and also, he’d snatched the bag of the woman he’d meant to approach.</p><p>His body heated with something else, anger completely dissipating and making room for adrenaline. He wasn’t sure when he had started running. He imagines that it was after the woman had begun shouting and searching for someone to help her but perhaps it was before then. He was always so quick to be the hero. Always so quick to save. To bring justice.</p><p>And look where that had gotten him, now.</p><p>Up two flights of stairs in some dusty, dilapidated building chasing after a silhouette. Yet, it wasn’t truly a silhouette was it? It wasn’t what he’d thought, some lowlife searching for someone else’s hard-earned money to fund his needs. No, it wasn’t that at all.</p><p>“Oh, of course it’s you! Who else would it be?” The shrill voice came again. Bruce couldn’t peel his eyes away from the floor, staring at the moonlight. He clenched his teeth. A shadow cascaded in the light, a body. He couldn’t look.</p><p>“Baatsy.” He sing-songed. A thump, then a screeching slide. A black purse, just two feet shy of Bruce’s feet. He stared at it for a moment, then tore his eyes away. White shoes in the dim lighting, scuffed by dirt and gravel. White pants, shirt—no, <em>jumpsuit</em>. He grimaced, eyebrows knitting. Collar spread enough to see pale skin, long neck. Fucking green hair, longer now than he remembered. And fuck, did he remember. The image of this man, this menace, this bane of his existence was burnt and downright branded into his memory forever and ever. There was no way he could forget the way he looked, the way he walked—that crooked little gait, straight maybe in another lifetime. The one where he was a normal man, with a normal job and a normal life. The one where he wasn’t the cause of Bruce’s restless nights, the face in his dreams he’d never call nightmares. The one where he didn’t wake up in a damp bed, wet with whatever fluid his body released, sweat, piss. He’d begun to just head straight to the shower, shame melting away after a few months, trusting Alfred to take care of it by the time he’d returned.</p><p>Bruce tried to focus on the skin of his neck. Found words somewhere in his muddled brain. “Who… I’m not who you’re talking about.”</p><p>His head cocked. A chuckle. Another one. “Of course you are, silly. Do you think I wouldn’t know you?” Bruce doesn’t answer. His eyes fall downward, locking on the purse. His hand itches to receive it and just leave. “You think I wouldn’t recognize you without all that big, macho armor?”</p><p>“I’m not—” His words are caught in his throat as the man steps closer, fully into the light, soaking as much of it up as he can. Bruce doesn’t have control over his eyes then, as they flit up to the man’s face taking in it. It’s like drinking coffee, black, he thinks. The way it’s so bitter and so painful, eviscerating him and making him wish for something sweeter. Something less harsh. He doesn’t know this face, the one without the white and black paint. The red lipstick. This face is different, and he <em>can’t</em>, as much as he wants to, tear his eyes away from it. His eyes are dark, his features are fucking dark and his skin is smooth, no blemishes, no pimples, just skin and… scars, just on either side of his mouth. The skin is raised there, rough and demanding his attention.</p><p>He smiles. Doesn’t laugh. “Missed me?”</p><p>Bruce swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Jeez, you’re kind of quiet. I thought our reunion would be a bit… louder.” He chuckles, then. “More violence, the way you like it. The punches and the kicks. The throwing and the licks. You know, the Batman way of doing things.”</p><p><em>Look at you go</em>.</p><p>Bruce grimaces visibly, closing his eyes shut again. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have missed the puzzled look on the Joker’s face. His voice cuts through the silence again. “Although, I guess you’re not really Batman right now, are you?” He’s musing now, thinking out loud. “You’re Bruce.”</p><p>“Don’t.” It sounds choked, like it hurt to spit it out.</p><p>“What? Call you by your name?” He asks. “Would you like it if I called you something else?”</p><p>“Don’t.” Bruce repeats through gritted teeth, sweat draining down his back now, underneath his sweater.</p><p>“Can I ask you something?” Bruce doesn’t answer. “What are you doing out here, strolling the streets at this time of night, no mask, no suit? Don’t you know there are dangerous people around at these hours?” He bends down to pick up the purse, quickly, before he loses his nerve to do so. “Don’t you know human beings are delicate little things? It only takes a nick to make ‘em bleed.”</p><p>He should be angry. He should be fighting. He should be demanding to know why the fuck Joker is out and about on the streets. He should be calling Arkham and asking them why they are so fucking incompetent that they’d allow a complete psychopath to escape their clutches. He should have been wearing his fucking suit. He should. He should. He should.</p><p>He feels horribly naked, like a fucking teenager in the locker room for the first time. He’d thought about this often since the last time he’d seen Joker. How he’d kill him, maybe, if he felt particularly ravenous for justice. Maybe that would make Rachel happy. Maybe it wouldn’t. He didn’t know anymore. His memories of her were getting fuzzier by the day, harder to reach. It felt like grasping at straws trying to figure out what she’d want, what she’d like, how she’d want him to do something—anything, really. The image he had of her in his head, his beautiful Rachel, was blurry, like a poorly taken photograph. Yet, the man before him was different. His image was clear.</p><p>God, he wants to kill him. Wants to slit his throat, bathe in the blood that would squirt and pour out of him. Wants to bask in it and make it last.</p><p>Yet.</p><p>“Why’d you take her purse?”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>His fingers twitch around the handle of the bag. “You gave it back.”</p><p>Joker’s tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. One side of his mouth lifts. “It’s of no use to me, Batsy.”</p><p>Bruce allows himself to lock eyes with the man in front of him. If he flinches, Joker doesn’t say anything. “An a-asylum runaway?”</p><p>He must find this funny because he barks out a laugh, clapping his hands together. “Oh, there’s nothing I need that can be bought, Batsy.” He stares at him quizzically, as if he’s trying to understand something. “You’re different this way. You’re not Batsy.”</p><p>“You… sound like you’re the one that has missed me.” He hisses but it comes out soft. He wants to leave. Badly.</p><p>Joker’s face changes, morphs into something akin to amusement. “Why, yes, I did. I’ve missed you a great deal…” He eyes him before he speaks again, “… Bruce.” It makes Bruce’s chest constrict, hearing his name out the mouth of this man. “I missed the Batman. But maybe… maybe, I’ll like this, too.”</p><p>If anyone ever asked, he’d deny it, but a blush crawled up his neck, scorching, tinging the tips of his ears and his cheeks. In this light, it wasn’t visible, something Bruce took as a favor from the Almighty. “You shouldn’t be here.” He says. “You shouldn’t.”</p><p>“Are you gonna put me back where I belong, Bruce?”</p><p>It shouldn’t sting the way it does, it probably wasn’t meant to sting. It was meant as playful banter, in true Joker style. And maybe, in another reality, five years ago most likely, he would’ve risen to the occasion. Insulted the man in front of him. Attacked him. Called the police. But this wasn’t five years ago. This was now, and now, Bruce isn’t… Batman. Not the one that took on this Joker headfirst, filled with anger and an insatiable thirst for vengeance. He’s not even the Bruce he was minutes ago when he’d taken off after him.</p><p>The mere sight of Joker had stripped him of whatever defenses he had in place. Now, he could feel his knees start to buckle as the man took a step closer to him. He could feel the sweat dripping in rivulets underneath his sweater, feel the way his heart stuttered. He wishes it had been him. He wishes he’d died, all those years ago. Wishes he’d seen his end, didn’t have to fuck with any of this shit anymore. Didn’t have to deal with whatever the fuck was wrong with him all the time, forever running after criminals he couldn’t catch. Fuck, it’d never be enough.</p><p>He’d never get enough. He’d never be enough. His eyes begin to sting. He’s shaking. He doesn’t know when Joker had gotten even closer, so close. He shakes violently when he realizes, though, jerking backwards so fast he nearly loses his footing.</p><p>A hand on his shoulder grounds him. He tries to shrug it off. It doesn’t work. Joker’s free hand comes up to grab his chin, not too forceful but enough to hurt, forcing him to look at him. Was he always taller than he was? Bigger than he was? Stronger than he was, he thinks as the grip on his shoulder tightens. Not for the first time, Joker stares at him, more intensely this time, studying him. Bruce swallows and Joker’s dark eyes catch the motion, settling on his throat for more than a few seconds. His eyes return to Bruce’s face, once again observing him.</p><p><em>You’re different this way</em>.</p><p>“Please.” He doesn’t know why he says it. He recoils as soon as the words leave his mouth, as much as he can in the clutches of the man’s punishing grip.</p><p>Joker looks genuinely surprised at that. He cocks his head. “Please what?”</p><p>He doesn’t know. “I-I’m sorry.”</p><p>“For?”</p><p>Everything. Not making the right choice. Killing Rachel. Not being strong enough then or now. Being a disappointment.</p><p>“My, my.” Joker’s voice is just above a whisper. “How pretty you are this way. You want to cry. You’re going to.”</p><p>So said, so done. A single tear falls from Bruce’s eye. His face burns with shame. He shuts his eyes again. “I—”</p><p>“Why are you crying, Bruce?” His voice is even. Not manic like Bruce is used to, underlying laughter waiting to bubble to the surface. Instead, his voice is… soothing and inquisitive, prodding into a part of him he’s ignored for a long time.</p><p>“I don’t know.” He chokes out.</p><p>An inhale. “I think you do. Open your eyes.” Bruce’s eyes slowly flutter open. He feels embarrassment burn inside of him. He has a strange thought. He wonders what his parents would think of him in this moment.</p><p>Before, it was easy to imagine what his parents would think. They’d be proud of him for upholding the family legacy, making a fine man of himself and righting the wrongs of this godforsaken city. He didn’t have to guess before; he knew that his parents would be proud of him.</p><p>Now, though. It was harder to find solace in that thought. It didn’t seem true anymore, it hadn’t in a long time. Before, when he thought of his parents, he’d see them smiling down on him from ear to ear. Now, his mother wore a disappointed yet apologetic frown whilst his father’s face was contorted fully in distaste. He was an embarrassment.</p><p>The thought makes him cry more, fresh tears running down his cheeks as he looks into the dark eyes of the man that had taken everything from him. “You’re not gonna call Arkham, are you?” Bruce slowly shakes his head in response. Joker nods. “I know. If you do, maybe we should go together.”</p><p>Bruce’s lip curls up. For a second, he feels insulted, until he realizes there’s no trace of humor on Joker’s face. “W-what?”</p><p>“You seem tired, Bruce. Are you tired?” Immensely. “Yeah. It gets tiring cleaning this shitty city up all the time doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Yeah.” He agrees.</p><p>“I’ll bet when you get a break you don’t even know what to do with it.” He muses, his hand letting up from Bruce’s chin. He traces his jaw with his index finger, staring down at the man. “You use it planning what bad guy you’re gonna bring to his knees next. You don’t stop and just enjoy yourself, do you?”</p><p>Bruce bites his cheek, breaking eye contact. He shifts his head and Joker allows it, fully removing his hands from Bruce’s body. He clasps his hands behind his back, still staring at Bruce. Then, he stares out the closest window. He steps toward it. “Something about a full moon invigorates me. Does it invigorate you too, Bruce?” He says, voice a little less controlled, more on the shrill side. It makes Bruce’s stomach do flips, reminiscent of what that voice is capable of. Backhanded ultimatums, condescending speeches and downright disturbing words.</p><p>Still, Bruce humors him, sniffing and wiping his cheeks dry. He looks outside. From their angle, the top of the moon pokes out from behind a taller building, looking grand and glowing a healthy pearl white. He stares at it blankly, admiring its beauty. “If you wanted to, you could throw me through this glass, right now. I’d go, down, fast and hard. I’d crash and break a couple bones. That what you wanna see?” He says, conversationally.  “You think I deserve it for what I’ve done? For who I am?”</p><p>Bruce blinks, startling when Joker turns his attention back to him. “You wanna hurt me for what I’ve done, Bruce?”</p><p>“Yeah.” He breathes.</p><p>Joker seems pleased with that answer. He grins. “Will you?”</p><p>Bruce deflates visibly. He shakes his head after a beat. “I… can’t.”</p><p>“One day, you will.” Joker says. “One day, you and I are gonna have it out again. Guns blazing, if that’s how it goes. Fists, fire and blood.” He preens, teeth showing, scars pulling. He hops, full of energy. “Oh, it’s gonna be great Bruce.” He nods, grin growing softer. “But that won’t be tonight, will it, Bruce?”</p><p>Bruce inhales and the woman’s bag, since forgotten, slips from his wet fingers. He bunches up the fabric of his slacks in his hand. “No.” He breathes. Joker nods, scratching his head. Bruce looks at his huge form, dwarfing the long window, dark in contrast to the moon behind him. He stalks over to Bruce again, in the way he does, crooked and all.</p><p>“What will be tonight, Bruce?”</p><p>Bruce’s breath hitches in his throat at the sudden proximity again. He feels awkward here, standing with a man he knows to be his adversary. He lacks everything that makes him Batman. He has no confidence, no swagger, no armor, no <em>agency </em>here. He feels a way he hasn’t felt since he was a boy—helpless, needy, distressed. Underneath Joker’s predatory gaze, he feels like prey. It’s such a foreign feeling for him, yet he finds himself fixing into it anyway, squeezing and molding himself so he can fit into it comfortably. Comfort doesn’t come. He feels at the mercy of this man—because he is a <em>man</em>. Strands of green hair falling onto his shoulders, skin that covers the muscle of his biceps, disappearing into the sleeve of his jumpsuit. Breath surfing through his body slowly, in and out, his chest rising with it. His prodding eyes burning holes into Bruce’s face, searching him like he wants to crack his head like an egg and eat the yolk. Fuck, he’s looking at him like he can<em> see</em> him. There’s nothing for him to hide behind.</p><p>He feels unusual.</p><p>He tries to find his voice. “I want…” He stops. Joker’s eyebrow props up. Bruce looks at the ground. “Don’t make me.” His voice is so small.</p><p>“Don’t make you what?”</p><p>“Say it.”</p><p>“Say what?”</p><p>“Just…” Bruce huffs, frustration ebbing through him. “Don’t make me… say it. Please.”</p><p>Joker sighs softly, eyes narrowing. “You want to know what I think, Bruce? I think,” He begins. “You want me to make you.” Bruce begins to shake his head, his heart dropping. “Ah, ah, ah.” Joker interjects before he can interrupt him, hand coming up to seize Bruce’s pretty little head by his chin. “It’s rude to interrupt when someone’s speaking, Bruce. Didn’t your daddy teach you that?”</p><p>Bruce intakes a sharp breath. Joker smiles, wide and taunting. He giggles, just a little. “He didn’t. Couldn’t, right? He went and left you all alone before he could, didn’t he?” Bruce’s eyes stung again, chest tightening. God, he felt so weak. “That’s okay, Bruce. I’m here now and I’m gonna teach you everything your daddy couldn’t. Manners, respect, obedience. All the things he never did. Think of me as your new daddy.”</p><p>Bruce swallows, emasculation thick in his throat. He wants so badly to reach down and cup his balls, just to make sure they’re still there. “Say it.”</p><p>“What?” Bruce asks, breathlessly, face puzzled.</p><p>“Say I’m your new daddy, of course.” He chuckles. Bruce blanches. “Oh, don’t be that way, Bruce. I’m gonna take good care of you. Now, say it. Seal the deal.” He fixes him with a challenging glare and in that moment, Bruce realizes something. This is the moment that makes or breaks him. This is the moment that defines him, whether he signs a deal with this particular devil or not.</p><p>It pains him, really, that he’s ended up in this situation. It makes him burn with embarrassment that he’s stooped this low from a respected hero to a sniveling man, if he could even be <em>called</em> a man, at his enemy’s feet. It almost makes him burn with anger, with frustration, yet those emotions are cancelled out by something else. Something that boils and churns hot in his gut, makes his body break out in goosebumps and his cock twitch in his pants. He hasn’t felt that something in <em>years</em>, hasn’t been in the headspace Joker has him in now ever. His mind is so fuzzy and alive and <em>goddamned </em>warm. And fuck, his cock is getting so much heavier, filling out as he replays Joker’s words in his mind, <em>feels</em> the man’s hand on him.</p><p>“Bruce-y,” Joker sings, bringing him back to reality. He pats him three times on the cheek in quick succession and Bruce moans. Fuck, he doesn’t know how, but he can feel himself run hotter, blushing more. Joker leans in closer, bending down, his breath ghosting over Bruce’s ear. “Come on, now. Be a good boy and tell daddy what he wants to hear.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>. You’re my- y-you’re my new daddy.” He’s such a disappointment and he just fucking sits in it, then. Thomas Wayne rolls over in his grave. Fuck, he’s sorry. He’s so sorry, as tears roll down his face. So fucking sorry as Joker chuckles in his ear, his warm breath going straight to his dick.</p><p>“Good boy.” He says and Bruce whimpers. “Such a good boy, Bruce. Always doing everything for everyone, always saving everybody.” His hand slips from Bruce’s chin, sliding downwards and ghosting over the expanse of his neck. “Always doing every single thing. Who does anything for you, Bruce? Have you ever let somebody else do something for you?”</p><p>Bruce cries more, sniffling, shaking his head. Joker’s hand grows tighter on his throat. “Words, Bruce. Use them.”</p><p>“N-no.” He says.</p><p>“Why don’t you ever let anyone do anything for you?”</p><p>Bruce inhales, mindful of the thick fingers pressing into his throat. The way his neck is so small in Joker’s hand makes him whine, low and quiet. “I… I can do it on my own.” Joker hums, encouraging him to continue, then his mouth is beneath Bruce’s ear and he whimpers again. “I don’t want anyone else to do it. I like to do it. I want to.”</p><p>Soft lips press little kisses on him. “But you’re tired, Bruce.”</p><p>“Gotta keep going. People need me.”</p><p>“Stubborn,” Joker says before he latches onto the skin of Bruce’s neck, sucking softly. Bruce absentmindedly floats closer to the bigger man, eyes fluttering. “You don’t know when to stop. You don’t know how to give yourself a break. That’s why you need Daddy to make you. If nobody makes you, you won’t do it, will you? You won’t be good the way you were meant to be.”</p><p>Bruce makes a strangled sound as Joker sucks harder, tongue lapping at the spot he’s working. “I-I—” He’s cut off when Joker’s free arms snakes around his midsection, drawing him closer, massaging circles into his back.</p><p>“You need me to make you.” He repeats.</p><p>Dazed, Bruce nods. “I need you to make me.”</p><p>“Again.” He sucks harder, teeth biting into Bruce’s flesh.</p><p>“I-I need you to make me,” He gasps. And then, “I need you to make me, Daddy.”</p><p>“You’re such a good boy, Bruce.” He releases the abused flesh from his mouth, running a thumb over the sensitive spot and Bruce flinches. He pulls back to look him in the eye.</p><p>“Thank you, Daddy.”</p><p>He skims Bruce’s bottom lip with his finger. “So pretty, aren’t you.”</p><p>Then, he kisses him. It’s soft, gentle and a little wet, kind of like the way it is with a woman. Bruce likes it. It’s been so long since he’s kissed someone, and it feels <em>good</em>. It feels good the way Joker’s lips slot against his, the way his arm snakes lower on his back then roughly pushes him flush to his chest. Bruce intakes a sharp breath at the feeling of the other man’s dick pushed up against his thigh, reminding him that Joker is <em>not </em>a woman. It’s searing hot and hard, pressing into him so shamelessly it makes him feel sheepish. It’s his first time feeling a dick that isn’t his own, on his body.</p><p>When Joker’s hand drops to cup his ass, he automatically jerks, grinding his own cock against Joker’s thigh. He moans brokenly and Joker takes the opportunity to shove his tongue into Bruce’s mouth, fingers growing stronger around his neck again. Shit, Bruce likes that. It hurts, but he likes it. He finds himself hoping it’ll bruise.</p><p>A hand slips under Bruce’s sweater, tracing the leather of his belt. It comes around to the front, to rub at his bare chest, fingers skating over a nipple. Bruce cries out then, breaking their kiss. He pants. “Fuck, I… I can’t. This is—I can’t, please. I’m not supposed to—”</p><p>Joker grabs him firmly over his slacks, running his hand over the shape of Bruce’s cock. The words die on his tongue. “You’re gonna come in your pants for me.” Is all he says. He continues to stroke Bruce through his pants, the only sound in the abandoned building both of their labored breaths and the fabric of his slacks. He watches Bruce’s face, noting how he skirts his eyes all over the room, refusing to hold eye contact. That won’t do. Bruce’s face contorts in pleasure and frustration, such a beautiful combination on him. He dips his head to catch Bruce’s eyes, so dark in the dim lighting, yet still so expressive. Still so sad, so timid, so hopeful. Fuck, Joker could come from just looking into them.</p><p>He hadn’t been this way all those years ago, no. Only after they’d met. It’s his fault the man is so fucked up and yeah, sue him, the thought of that makes him hard. The thought that he’d broken him, made him into this shell of a man, he’d met here today, fuck, yes. It makes him harder than he’s ever been in his life. Here was the Batman, he’d wanted so badly to meet, to vie with, to fucking conquer, sitting here wrapped up in a bow like it’s his birthday. And, shit, he’s always liked gifts. He’s messy about the wrapping paper, though. Batman, the one he’d plotted against, wasn’t here now. He’d died, too those years ago. At first, it was frightening, knowing he’d came out of Arkham to relieve the war that went on in his mind that screamed at him to finish what he’d started, just to find his nemesis gone. Yet. Fucking yet. Bruce Wayne is an entirely different ballgame.</p><p>A fragile, hollow, pretty little thing that needs to be bent and broken.</p><p>“You’re such a fucking whore.” He spits, watching Bruce’s reaction. Bruce blushes furiously, as he knew he would and his eyes get wider, glassier. “Do you see what the fuck you’re doing, Bruce? Do you see what you’re letting me do to you?” The smaller man whimpers, trying to advert his gaze. Joker pumps Bruce’s cock faster, feeling a wet spot beginning to stain the front of his pants. “Look at me.” He demands, and like the good boy Bruce is, he obeys. <em>Fuck</em>. “You’re getting so wet for me. So wet for a man that took everything from you.”</p><p>Bruce looks like a kicked puppy. Joker’s willing to bet he can get him to break down into sobs. “Stop.” Bruce says, dejectedly.</p><p>“You know I did. You know I did this to you. Made you this way. Weak.”</p><p>Bruce shakes his head.</p><p>“Desperate.”</p><p>“No.” He shudders, his hips still thrusting to meet the friction Joker’s offering him.</p><p>“Pathetic.” Joker seethes and a pained sound comes from Bruce, and shit, he’s pretty when he cries, trying so hard not to break eye contact. Trying so hard to be good. “I bet you’d let me fuck you if I asked.”</p><p>“Please, stop.”</p><p>“You’d take it, like a good boy. Wouldn’t you, Bruce?” He squeezes the head of his dick, eliciting a moan. “Wouldn’t you take Daddy’s cock without a fucking word?”</p><p>“Y-yes.”</p><p>“Yes, who?”</p><p>Tears flow freely down his face. He looks so abashed, so ruined and Joker hasn’t even fucked him. Hasn’t even taken his fucking cock out of his pants. “Yes, who, Bruce?”</p><p>“Please, don’t make—”</p><p>“I thought you were going to be good, Bruce.”</p><p>His eyes get wide. “N-no, no I—”</p><p>“You’re not being good, Bruce. You’re just being a greedy little slut that’s taking all he can fucking get, isn’t that right?” Joker seethes, raising an eyebrow. Bruce shakes his head, mouth gaping to say something. “I guess that’s all you’re good for. Maybe I was wrong about you, you don’t need me to help you.”</p><p>“I do, I swear I do!” He sobs, whether it’s from Joker’s hand setting a more brutal pace or his words or both, it’s anybody’s guess. “I do. Please, I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to b-be a—”</p><p>“You didn’t mean to be a what? Ungrateful whore?”</p><p>“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a slut.” Bruce relents. Joker can tell he’s close, his hips are stuttering more erratically now, struggling to keep up with the pace he’s set. Quickly, he flips Bruce, pressing Bruce’s back to his front. Bruce moans deeply at the feel of Joker’s dick pressed against his ass and he wriggles against it. “Feels so good.” He mutters.</p><p>“I know, baby.” Joker slides his hand back down to Bruce’s dick. He continues rubbing him through his pants.</p><p>Bruce preens, presenting his neck to Joker. “Please. I’m sorry." A beat. "Are you mad? A-are you gonna hurt me? Do you hate me?"</p><p>"Never."</p><p>
  <em>I don't wanna kill you! You complete me.</em>
</p><p>Bruce shudders. "Do you forgive me, Daddy?”</p><p>Licking a stripe across his neck, Joker answers, “Yeah, honey. Yeah, I do.”</p><p>Bruce sighs in response, relief visibly flooding through him. It only takes a couple more strokes of Joker’s hand before Bruce is whimpering, so pretty and low, like he’s ashamed of the sounds he’s making. “You gonna come, Bruce? You gonna come for Daddy?”</p><p>He nods vigorously, humping back against Joker’s dick. “Good.”</p><p>Joker latches his mouth onto Bruce’s neck, biting down hard. Bruce’s orgasm is ripped from him as he comes with a high-pitched moan, Joker’s teeth breaking skin. If he hears the way Joker growls ‘mine’, into his skin like a promise, there’s little he can do about it anyway. His come is slimy, seeping through the fabric of his pants and coating Joker’s hand. He feels spent, so fucking tired and ready to go home but <em>so fulfilled</em>, for fuck’s sake. Joker’s supporting most of his body weight with strong arms around his midsection, licking over the raw bite on his neck.</p><p>He kisses gently over the mark, up and down, then he rests his lips on the shell of Bruce’s ear. “What do you say, Bruce?”</p><p>A heaving mess, mind thick with the aftermath of pleasure and the thought of what comes after this, his heart drops. But there’s little he can do now. So, “Thank you, Daddy.”</p><p><br/>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Thomas Wayne was not a good man. Joker is not a good man. Bruce crumbles even more considerably.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse</p><p>I started writing this chapter and got so carried away. Grab a cup of tea and a snack. BTW, THIS ISN'T EDITED.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alfred Pennyworth runs solely on worry.</p><p>If nothing else, worry has always been a consistent part of his life, never leaving him alone for long. It has always manifested itself inside of him from his very own childhood unto the present day, becoming more of an old friend than anything else as he has grown older. Over the years, yes, he has developed a healthy relationship with that particular emotion and gotten a handle on it, stopped it from possessing him fully but he has also realized that he can’t help but to worry no more than he can help drawing in breaths. He figures that it is a permanent part of who he is, that it is in his very nature to worry about himself and others and conjure up ways to solve problems that may arise at any given point in time.  </p><p>He remembers quite vividly the way worry had treated him in Bruce’s youth--prickling his skin and making it hot as he watched Bruce play in the wide expanse of the Manor, dashing around carelessly as children so often do. The wind had often gushed in his wake, making expensive décor teeter and twist teasingly therefore making the butler’s heart stampede inside of his chest. It was harmless fun most times with Bruce narrowly avoiding breaking vases and figurines, jumping and speeding so full of the kind of life and adventure that made Alfred’s chest warm. He liked to watch the boy play but warned him each time to slow down and most importantly, to watch his back. He was a child though, a rambunctious one at that, and his attention could not be spread so thinly on more than one thing at a time. So then, more times than not, the boy’s playtimes would end with Thomas Wayne gripping him by the shirt so roughly, he’d be on his tippy toes, a small, pale hand over his father’s—a wordless plea to let him go. Thomas’ eyebrows would be drawn tightly together, eyes bulging out of his head and fists clenched furiously in Bruce’s shirt, pure rage seething out of him for some crystal, diamond, antique something or the other that Alfred knew cost an arm and a leg. Bruce though, a child, didn’t understand, couldn’t grasp the concept of money and items of value at his minor age. The boy would crumple, his body closing in on itself in likeness to an armadillo for any kind of shield from his father’s verbal assault. Then, worry would shoot out to Alfred, grabbing him roughly with wet, soggy hands as he stared helplessly, at the scene in front of him and wondered if the luxurious item at hand was worth it. Wondered what he would do if Master Wayne were to truly hurt the boy.</p><p>He didn’t have to wonder for so long. It had happened one particular day in fall when cinnamon and ginger leaves had just begun to fall unto the grass of the manor, making the yard such a treat to see from the third floor. As it were, Alfred was dusting off the mantle of the fireplace in Master Wayne’s study when the door sounded, Bruce shuffling inside. Their eyes caught each other and oh, worry had seized him then, so frigid and so demanding. Bruce’s eyes lacked the boyish charm Alfred had grown particularly fond of, his face a ghastly pale as if the blood had been drained out of his little body. He knew that Bruce was never the same as he was in his presence when Master Wayne was around, yet this felt different. The boy looked scared, almost pleading as he stared into the butler’s eyes.</p><p>“Bruce.” Came Master Wayne’s voice, uninterested. He spared a look to the man, noticing that he hadn’t even looked up from the notepad he was scribbling in. “Sit.”</p><p>Bruce walked over on shaky legs, just home from school still in his uniform. He sat in one of the two chairs in front of his father’s desk. The poor boy was restless, a bundle of nerves, shaking his left foot, biting the nails of his right hand and eyes skittering all about the room. He twisted his head backward, in Alfred’s direction, blinking. Alfred stared at him before going back to his previous position, cleaning off the mantle.</p><p>“F-father?”</p><p>No answer. A long beat of silence. The sound of Bruce adjusting his knee-highs. His oxfords kicking the wood of the desk. Thomas’ pen sliding across the page.</p><p>“Father?” He tried again. Nothing. Bruce had made a fist out of pure nerves, nails cutting into his palm. The suspense was tearing him apart—and not only him, Alfred felt his stomach flopping for the boy. His next words were cracked, broken around the edges. “D-Dad, I’m sorry—”</p><p>“Enough of that disgusting whining, boy.” It came sharp and precise, cutting whatever was on the tip of Bruce’s tongue to slices. Master Wayne’s book closed. “Tell me, what’s this I hear from your headmaster of violence with some boy at school?”</p><p>“I-I didn’t—”</p><p>“Is Headmaster Arbit a liar?”</p><p>“N-no, she—”</p><p>“Then it’s true. You were involved in an altercation.” It was quiet, Alfred guessed that Bruce must’ve nodded then because Master Wayne continued. “Tell me what you believe warrants embarrassing not only yourself, but your entire family by behaving like an insolent mongrel with no regard for others.”</p><p>“I…” Bruce said. He took a deep breath. “Warner Colby. He’s a boy in my year. We had physical education today.” Alfred chanced another glance. Master Wayne raised an eyebrow at his son, prompting him to go on. “My team won against his in the baseball game today.” He stated, a smile ready to form on his face. Thomas didn’t seem as enthused. “Well, he didn’t like that we won. We were all in the locker room after and he—” He stopped. Alfred’s face twisted in confusion.</p><p>“Out with it, boy.” Master Wayne said bitterly.</p><p>Bruce mumbled something under his breath, body collapsing from sitting upright.</p><p>“What was that?”</p><p>“He… pulled my pants down. In front of everyone. Made fun of me.” His voice was heavy with embarrassment. Alfred felt his heart clench.</p><p>Master Wayne was quiet for a moment, swiping a hand over his mouth back and forth in thought. He nodded absently, getting up from his chair. He paced the length of the cherry wood desk, fingers tracing it. He looked down at a cup of pens and pencils. “Then what happened? You hit him?”</p><p>Bruce nodded reluctantly, Thomas looking at him with a nod to match. He hummed, reaching out a hand to touch his son, which Bruce flinched away from. Still, the hand found purchase on his face, rubbing seemingly soothing circles into his cheek where tears had fallen. Just as Bruce had begun to sink into the touch: “Get up.”</p><p>“What?” It was a whisper.</p><p>Thomas removed his hand from the boy, using it to clear his desk off. The pens, papers, files and miscellaneous items all fell messily to the wooden floorboards. “Over the desk, Bruce.” The man loosened his tie, eyes falling to Alfred for the first time. He seemed taken aback for just a second, facial expression becoming one of delight. Before he could address the butler, Bruce’s voice came again, soft.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Now.” Master Wayne said, fixing him with a stern glare. His didn’t let up until the boy rose stiffly from his chair. He stepped out of his way, eyeing him as he made his way to the spot his father had meant. The boy looked up at Master Wayne, eyes filled with unshed tears, so red and glassy. He looked at Alfred. If anyone ever asked, perhaps he’d say that was the most painful, debilitating moment of his entire life. The singular moment where the boy’s face flushed with crimson red, adverting his eyes quickly to the floor. He no longer pleaded with his eyes for Alfred to help him, to do something.</p><p>Perhaps he had accepted his fate, whatever it was his father had planned for him.</p><p>“Would you, Alfred?” Thomas said.</p><p>“I beg your pardon, Master Wayne?”</p><p>A small smile. He began to shed his suit jacket. “The fireplace poker.” He dropped it on the back of the chair Bruce had been sitting in. “Would you hand it to me?”</p><p>Useless is what he would call himself in that moment, so very useless as he watched Bruce bend over the desk, arms flat on the surface, tears spilling over. Thomas rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up. He raised an eyebrow at the butler. Alfred jumped, mind coming back to the present moment. “Oh, excuse me, sir, do forgive me.” It was rushed, so hurried everything that happened next.</p><p>Him handing over a poker to Master Wayne as he’d asked—because well, that was his job wasn’t it? That was what he was here for, to <em>serve</em>. Not to interfere in the Wayne’s’ personal matters. And he was goddamned good at his job. Taking orders and completing them flawlessly, without a word, without needing a reminder. Yet, this. He felt odd doing this, a strange sensation taking over him, almost making him do something completely mindless—like increasing his hold on the poker. Making it so that Thomas couldn’t take it.</p><p>There were more though, if Alfred wouldn’t give it over, he supposed. Whatever he had to tell himself to sleep at night, as Thomas stalked back over to his son. “Now. You said he pulled your pants down, is that correct?”</p><p> “Yes.” Bruce breathed. Then, as Master Wayne’s fingers hooked into the fabric of his shorts, “D-Dad, can you… can you… can Alfred not…?”</p><p>“Can Alfred not what?”</p><p>“Please.” He said and it was so rushed, so messy. “Please? Just, can he not be here—”</p><p>“Alfred is the respected butler of this manor; he can stay where he sees fit. It’s just as much his property as it ours. Do you not agree?” Master Wayne responded, pausing his movements for just a moment.</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“You wouldn’t be implying that he has less rights than us, would you?” A hand slipped to the front of the shorts as he resumed, fingers unbuttoning them.</p><p>“No. N-no, no—”</p><p>“Because that would be <em>rude</em>, Bruce.” He yanked the boy’s shorts and underwear down in one swift motion, exposing his bare behind. Bruce whimpered. “And that would mean that this punishment would need to be a bit longer, wouldn’t it? And I know you don’t want that, do you?”</p><p>The boy choked. “No. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“You’re telling the wrong person sorry, boy.” Thomas’ hand snaked up Bruce’s back, clenching in his hair and making him cry out. Alfred flinched. He swung the boys head in Alfred’s direction. “Go ahead, now.” Bruce clenched his eyes shut. Thomas wound his hand tighter. “Open them and say it. Now.”</p><p>His eyes fluttered open, eyelashes wet and eyeballs bloodshot. “I’m s-sorry, Alfred.”</p><p>He let go instantaneously, letting Bruce’s head collide with the hard wood with a sickening crack.</p><p>As Thomas raised the fire poker, seeing the boy shaking underneath him like a leaf, the contents of Alfred’s stomach angrily lurched, sending him reeling outside the room in search of the nearest bathroom.</p><p>Bruce hadn’t been able to look Alfred in the eye when Thomas had called him back into the room. The boy looked bashful and pained, tears staining his cheeks, eyes glued to the floor and one hand holding up his shorts as he hadn’t bothered buttoning them again. When he’d been ordered to apply a soothing salve to the boy’s bruised behind, dots of blood lining the welts, Bruce had just stood there, expressionless, unaware of the way his body was trembling like a leaf, staring at nothing. He walked with a limp for three weeks after that, face twisting whenever he had to sit. He did not play around the house for two months. And if Bruce ever came home with a bruised face or body part after that, Headmaster Arbit never called again.</p><p>Another time that worry and dread completely engulfed him was when he’d gotten the news that Thomas and Martha had been killed. Even worse when he’d retained custody of Bruce and had to tend to the boy that refused to speak. He would watch him lay in bed—his parents’ bed, for months after the killing. Bruce hardly slept during that period, falling into little naps when his body grew too tired to support his wakefulness. They rarely lasted over five minutes before the young boy’s body jerked upright violently and he engulfed the entire room with eardrum shattering screams and sobs. In those moments, Alfred had run into the room from his hiding place outside the door, rushing to hold him; offer Bruce some kind of comfort. He supposed it worked, the boy held back onto him as if he were an anchor—the only thing keeping him in touch with reality.</p><p>Soon, he was able to sleep again once he had mustered up enough energy to ask Alfred to accompany him in bed. He had asked with a voice just above a whisper, looking so small and Alfred had wondered how the boy had ever thought he would’ve said no. Bruce had been tense at first, so much so Alfred had begun to fret he would tell him that it was a mistake. Then, he got better. He cuddled up beside the butler, the only family he had left, and began to lay on his chest, falling asleep to the beat of Alfred’s heart.</p><p>One night, he spoke again.</p><p>“I miss them.” He said, so soft Alfred almost didn’t hear it.</p><p>“I know, Master Wayne.” He had responded, the weight of the boy’s head so heavy on his chest.</p><p>The room was so quiet and dim, save for a single night light plugged beside Bruce’s bed, that he heard him swallow. “I miss him.” He said again. Then, “Is that bad?”</p><p>Just as Alfred had opened his mouth to respond, Bruce spoke again. “Is it bad that I miss him when he hated me so much?”</p><p>Alfred felt his heart break, split straight down the middle.</p><p>“Why did he hate me, Alfred?” His voice broke and he began to cry, great, heaving sobs that shook the bed.</p><p>Alfred didn’t have the right words to say, so he did what he could’ve done right: held him close, carding his fingers through his hair, comforting him until he fell asleep.</p><p>Once Bruce had begun to heal, Alfred had felt the metaphorical chains fall from him. Instead of being so wound up, worrying himself silly about the child, he felt more relaxed. Happier as he adjusted to being a sole guardian. Bruce’s childhood was somewhat a breeze in comparison to his teen years, the way he was so frustrated and focused on what he wanted to be in life.</p><p>
  <em>Alfred, I just want to help people. </em>
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  <em>I just want to make it better.</em>
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  <em>I don’t want bad people to get away with being bad.</em>
</p><p>Then, Batman.</p><p>So much of his blood, sweat and tears going into training. Working himself to fatigue on athletic equipment he’d bought for the manor. The child suddenly wasn’t a child anymore.</p><p>
  <em>I’m going to do it, Alfred, you’ll see. I’m going to… I’m going to be The Batman. And… and everyone’s going to be safe.</em>
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</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take long for him to vomit.</p><p>He’d felt it on the walk home, his stomach so unsettled, sickness draping over him like a coat but he’d hoped to last until he got upstairs to his room.</p><p>He has no such luck.</p><p>As soon as he closes the large front door of the manor behind him, his stomach becomes ferocious, making him nauseous. His arms flail desperately in the dark searching for something to hold onto. He can’t find anything to support his weight in time, so he falls onto the floor, the bones of his arms screaming from the impact of it. His stomach flips once, twice and then he spills out whatever he’d eaten earlier. It covers his hands, seeping under his palms until they begin to slip on it.</p><p>This feels like a new low, one he’d never thought it possible to reach. He wonders if whatever god is up there is trying to tell him something, trying to show him something. Humble him, maybe, with all his wealth and stature and million dollar fucking cars. Maybe that’s it, maybe this is some way of the heavenly father communicating with him. Maybe it’s the devil. As another wave of pain causes his stomach to constrict, he thinks that that’s more likely.</p><p>He vomits until there’s nothing left inside of him and he’s a heaving mess on the floor, gagging until his throat burns.</p><p>Fuck, it <em>hurts</em>.</p><p>He swallows, mind applying a torturous thought. What if Alfred were to come down the stairs right now, flicking on a lamp in his wake, illuminating the dark space? What if he were to see him like this, all covered in his own vomit, eyes bloodshot red as a particularly angry cherry, almost angrier than the discolored bruises he <em>knows </em>are on his neck. He can feel them burning and throbbing, the bruises that were sucked onto him and the bite that broke into his skin.  It feels like they’re taunting him as they pulsate, reminding him of his own vulnerability.</p><p><em>Slut</em>.</p><p>He wonders if Alfred would be able to tell what he’d done. What he’d let be done to him by a man like The Joker who had caused him so much grief, depression and emptiness. Whose actions had Alfred looking after Bruce as if he’d suddenly regressed back into a child; picking up after him, peering through the crack of his bedroom door at night, leaving sticky notes on the refrigerator so that he wouldn’t forget to eat during the day. Bruce imagines that Alfred would know, maybe, but wouldn’t say anything. He’d just look at him with undeniable disappointment swimming in his eyes, mouth clamped shut in a tight line. He’d offer to run him a bath. Talk to him nicely, hold in his disgust, his absolute disdain for the man he’d raised. But Bruce would know. He’d know that he’d hurt Alfred, even if he didn’t have it in him to verbally scorn him for it.</p><p>And somehow, someway, that would be worse.</p><p>Bruce lets out a choked sound, trying so hard to will his mind to stop. For a fucking second, just stop, long enough for him to get to his room. He’s so tired. He just wants to sleep, he doesn’t want to think about anyone else fucking hating him, he does that himself just fine.</p><p>He makes it up the stairs, thinking about the mess he’s made and the questions he hopes Alfred doesn’t ask in the morning. He really hopes Alfred doesn’t ask because maybe, just maybe he’ll tell him the truth and he can’t bear the thought of Alfred knowing, <em>god</em>, Alfred can’t ever know. The thought of Alfred knowing makes his stomach flip again and he groans.</p><p>He slips his clothes off in the bathroom and doesn’t bother to look in the mirror—uses extra effort to avoid it because he knows he can’t stand to see his reflection. He turns the shower knob, steam from the hot water rising from the tub. Sits in it ‘till it runs cold. He doesn’t know if the water running down his face is from the shower head or if it is of his own doing.</p><p>When he gets in bed, it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next morning, he wears a turtleneck.</p><p>If Alfred spares him a second glance, eyes lingering on his choice of dress, he doesn’t say a thing. “Coffee, Master Wayne?”</p><p>He nods, picking up the paper. “Thank you, Alfred.”</p><p>As the coffee is poured into Bruce’s mug, Alfred clears his throat. “Sir, might I ask if you’re alright?”</p><p>“Alright?” He answers a bit too quickly, right hand unclenching the newspaper and skirting up to his neck, relieved to find that it’s still covered by a thick layer of cotton. Alfred catches his eye, a puzzling look on his face.</p><p>“Yes, sir. When I woke up this morning, I found that the foyer was quite… messy, if you don’t mind me saying.” He clarifies, resting the coffeepot back on the table. “I supposed you were feeling a bit under the weather last night.”</p><p>Bruce swallows, a breath of relief running through his body. He nods and tries for a reassuring facial expression. “Yes, I didn’t… feel my best last night.” He says. “Sorry for leaving you with the mess—if I were in a better condition you know I’d—”</p><p>“Nonsense, sir.” Alfred waves a gloved hand.</p><p>Bruce nods. He hesitates before going back to his paper.</p><p> “Are you sure you’re feeling up for today’s activities, sir?”</p><p>No. He feels like he is going to burst just from overexertion and he still hasn’t looked himself in the mirror, so scared of what he’s going to fucking see. “I’m fine, Alfred. Thank you.”</p><p>“And the banquet, tonight?”</p><p>Shit.</p><p>He’d completely forgotten about the banquet.</p><p>The yearly Wayne Foundation banquet, for the children of The Gotham Orphanage.</p><p>He looks up at Alfred to see the man sporting an amused look. Bruce blushes. “Shut up.”</p><p>“I didn’t say anything, sir.” Alfred says with a playful smile.</p><p>“Can you… get my suit ready?”</p><p>“Already done, sir.” He says. “Anything else, sir?”</p><p>Bruce shakes his head bashfully, bringing the newspaper into view again. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Not a problem, sir.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>His day drudges along.</p><p>It feels like he’s the only thing that is still in the vast building of Wayne Enterprises, stuck staring out the window of his office with his hands in his pockets. He can hear the bustling of workers outside his office, can see them if he bothers to look through the glass of his door.</p><p>He stares down at the city, watching people walk left and right, so close together they look like sardines. Watches streetlights change colors and taxis speed by. He wishes he weren’t trying so hard to feel normal today, like the person he’d been in the office yesterday. Yet, he can feel his muscles straining with the effort to appear as if everything is fine, as if <em>he</em> is fine. He feels so coiled up and ready to pounce like some sort of wild animal that he fears for the next person that steps into his office. He isn’t quite sure if he’ll scare them off with an overzealous attitude or an uncharacteristically timid one. Thinking back on yesterday, he yearns to feel like<em> that</em> Bruce—the one that was so bored his mind had turned a dull grey as he buried himself into paperwork stacked on his desk. Then, it had been quiet inside of him. Boring, yes, but for shit’s sake, quiet--- a luxury he no longer had now with his brain going over a thousand miles per hour.</p><p>He’d do anything to be bored right now, eyes running over words on paper but not truly reading them, tapping his foot absently and lazily biting the edge of his pen like a child.</p><p>There’s nothing he would not do to be able to shut his eyes and not have to <em>see</em> it running like a movie behind his eyelids. To not hear his own pathetic little voice so soft and distant echoing inside of his head.</p><p>
  <em>Please.</em>
</p><p>He bites the inside of his cheek.</p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry.</em>
</p><p>He clenches his fist.</p><p>
  <em>Do you forgive me, Daddy?</em>
</p><p>Despite his strenuous efforts, all the memories of last night come gushing in, like a broken dam, the pressure sending him barreling in the deep water. He can feel the way he was held and touched, the soft pressure of hands on his body, light until they were heavy and hard, bruising him. He swallows at the memory of having The Joker so close to him, so comfortable being close to him, touching him in places Bruce had never thought he would. He can feel the way his large, calloused hand stroked him over the layers of his clothing, teasing and then forceful. He remembers that the most, it seems, the way he just took from him without asking. He wonders if the man just took a gamble or if he somehow just knew that Bruce wouldn’t say no, wouldn’t push him away, not with any kind of force behind it anyway. Because he hadn’t, not really. He’d tried, barked so quiet that it was barely audible, without a bite to follow.</p><p>It confuses him still, the way he gave in so easily. The way he just let him. The way he wanted it. <em>Needed it</em>, really, his brain supplies as his thoughts drift to the way Joker marked him, breaking into soft milky skin with sharp teeth, giving him a <em>token</em>. A bleeding, embarrassing thing presented to him like some sort of prize—no, some sort of memento, as if he knew Bruce would try his very hardest to carry on with his life, erase the events fully from his mind. He imagines that could simply never do in Joker’s eyes.</p><p>Because, yes, Bruce can ignore it. He’s so good at ignoring things.</p><p>He can busy himself with workouts until he burns himself to a crisp, sweaty and belligerent, gulping down bottle after bottle of ice water. He can do hours’ worth of paperwork, really bury himself in there and hide behind the mountains of it that always seem to find themselves in the file room. He can binge Family Feud day and night, bark out the number one answers and celebrate when he’s right. Can swim. Can play tennis. Wear turtlenecks up to his fucking mouth.</p><p>But underneath it all, the mark still will burn. It will still be irritated by any fabric that so much as brushes against it, demanding his attention, inviting the memories back into his mind. That much is clear now, as he shifts, bringing a hand up to wipe his face and the mark just<em> screams</em>. It’s so angry and it hurts so bad and it hates being covered up.</p><p>It feels like it’s rejecting Bruce’s attempt to cover it, feeling particularly vengeful at his shame, like that of a mistress—so distraught at being hidden like a dirty little secret. And Bruce knows that Joker knew it would. He knew it would be so uncomfortable, so painful both physically and mentally, that it would be impossible for him to block it out. He wanted him to feel it, to feel <em>him</em>. Something akin to rage licks up Bruce’s spine then, at the thought of The Joker having the power to inflict physical pain on him even when he isn’t physically present. Because, yeah, he could deal with the casual bedwetting and waking up in a cold sweat and the goddamn nightmares, but this was worse.</p><p>Not only was it worse because having the indentation of another man’s teeth on his body was degrading, sending his already aloof sense of self-worth plummeting into the ground, but it was worse because Bruce had <em>let</em> him. He’d let him hold him close and say all those demeaning, disgusting words that made him cry. He’d let him kiss him, let him suck on his skin and bruise it. He’d let him touch him and make him come in his fucking pants like a teenage boy. He’d let him stake his claim and bite into him. He’d let him make him say things he never would have said otherwise.</p><p>Things he didn’t mean.</p><p>
  <em>Aren’t you gonna give Daddy a goodbye kiss, Bruce?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, s-sorry.</em>
</p><p>He didn’t mean them, even if he’s weak in the knees thinking about it.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t worry, Bruce. I’m not gonna abandon my favorite boy. Keep an eye out for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You… promise?</em>
</p><p>When he goes into the bathroom sometime throughout the day, he catches a glance of himself in the mirror. His hand twitches at his side, curiosity eating at him as he stares at his covered neck.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He gives in later.</p><p>He steps out of the shower, sopping wet, mind wondering what Joker meant by instructing him to keep an eye out.</p><p>It’s just a fleeting thought, really—he knows the man is roaming the streets freely, thanks to him. He had never really given thought to what The Joker spent his free time doing back then when he was busy trying to stop him from destroying Gotham to the point of no return. It was so much simpler back then when he was just a face, just another foe for Batman to defeat. He never considered that the man was just a man, just a human like him. It kind of spooks him now to think of Joker as an actual human being that has to sleep and eat the way Bruce does. It makes him that much realer. Makes what happened between them that much realer.</p><p>Makes it so much more possible that he could run into him again someday soon, on the streets, inside of a shop. Makes the idea of him coming right up to Wayne Manor and knocking on the front door, asking Alfred to speak to him way less far-fetched. It scares him. Sends chills down his back and makes him shiver, becoming significantly aware of the cold tiles of the bathroom underneath his feet. He doesn’t quite understand why the thought is so chilling when he’s more than capable of defending himself should the manor be compromised yet it is.</p><p>Something scarier, though, is that although such a thought frightens him, some deranged, disgusting part of him, the part of him from last night, feels excited. He hates that part of himself and wishes to set fire to it and watch it die gruesomely. Yet, as teardrops of water cascade down the length of his body as he stands naked in the bathroom, he begins to walk over to the mirror. He still hasn’t been able to face himself, face the reality of what had happened, but now, he seems almost inclined to see it. He needs to see it.</p><p>When he does, he feels several things at once whilst staring at his reflection. Despondency, confusion, pain. He feels the wind being knocked out of him harshly. He hears something he hasn’t heard in years, the voice of his father so vividly in his ears. His words are knives, cutting into him, making him close his eyes tightly.</p><p>
  <em>Look at you, Bruce. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Is this what you’ve become? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>My only son.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The only one left to carry on The Wayne Legacy, a whore for his very own enemy.</em>
</p><p>He can see Thomas Wayne behind his eyelids, lip turned up in revulsion, looking down at him.</p><p>He can see something else, too. He can see scars, a big wide smile and long hair. Scary as it is, he can see somebody he doesn’t have to fucking pretend for, and <em>shit</em>, if that doesn’t make him open his eyes.</p><p>They’re wet and blurry and take a while to focus but when they do and he can see it again, he feels something different. As his eyes scan the bruises on his neck then rest heavily on the deep indentation of the bite mark, dull red able to be seen inside of the holes, he swallows. He feels… prideful. He doesn’t know how else to describe it. He likes it. He likes the bite that sits at the junction between his neck and shoulder, and the bruises—the fucking <em>hickeys</em>, that surround it and cover his skin. They’re obscene and awfully possessive and make him feel like so much less than a man, but he <em>likes</em> them. He likes the way the feeling of being owned and being possessed by somebody else rushes through his veins, engulfs him fully and makes him warm. His hand flies up to feel over the bruises, too hard at first, making him yelp in pain. Then, he tries again, softer this time, brushing over them lightly and tracking the movement with his eyes.</p><p>Fuck, it feels good.</p><p>It looks good, he thinks. He looks good <em>claimed</em>.</p><p>The moment when his cock stirs, blood beginning to fill it out, is when he realizes that he wouldn’t mind people seeing them. In fact, he kind of wants people to see them. He wants to show them off.</p><p>He wants so badly and so much, as his free hand finds his cock and begins a slow stroke. He finds himself pressing down on the bruises, enough to feel them and it makes him harder. It makes him feel filthy inside, as he lets his eyes slip shut, images of The Joker conjuring up inside of his mind. His pace builds up as he squeezes himself harder, imagining that it’s Joker’s hand instead of his.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for him to reach his orgasm and he comes with a soft grunt, thick, creamy white spurts coating his fist.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It happens later, around 7pm, give or take.</p><p>The Grand Hall of The Wayne Foundation Building is filled to capacity and bustling with guests dressed in their finest jewels and clothing. They’re socializing with glasses of champagne between their fingers, smiles plastered on their faces and checkbooks in their pockets. They’ve all gathered here to be a part of something bigger than themselves (or to make themselves look like good Samaritans), for a good cause and for a better Gotham.</p><p>After spending a little over an hour chatting with his guests, Bruce excuses himself to the bathroom nearby down the hall. He looks himself in the mirror after relieving himself, appreciating the dark grey suit Alfred picked out for him and the way it makes him look capable. For some reason, even though he’s done this event for years, this time it seems like the very first time. He’s nervous, something he never is when he’s hosting an event. He’s got the jitters and no matter how much he tries to calm himself down, his hand still shakes a little when he’s holding a glass of wine. Something about the air feels different, so suffocating as if demanding his attention, and really, he should’ve known. His hands shiver with nerves as he turns on the sink, barely registering the sound of the door opening, so lost in his own mind that he can’t hear anything.</p><p>But when he’s rubbing together his well lathered hands, eyes trained on the porcelain of the sink, and he hears light footsteps…</p><p>In hindsight, he should’ve known.</p><p>“Mamma mia,” A voice sounds from behind him. He freezes, blood running cold immediately from his head unto his toes in a domino effect. The faucet continues to run warm water over his hands, doing little to soothe the chill of his body. He tears his eyes away from the sink and they shoot up to the mirror, drinking in the reflection. Behind him he stands, waves of dark hair slicked down and tucked behind his ears and a bare face that can finally be seen properly in the bright light of the bathroom. He wears a suit, all black from the jacket to the dress shirt right down to the shiny bow tie. Bruce swallows, catching chocolate brown eyes in the mirror’s reflection. He’s never seen the man look so formal; shit, until last night he’d never seen the man in anything other than purple and green. He’d never seen him not wearing a mask of white paint, racoon eyes and red lips. All the times he’d remembered him, pictured him in his brain he’d seen a clown. A menace.</p><p>Now, Joker couldn’t look less like a clown if he tried and it’s giving him a severe case of whiplash. It once again hits Bruce that The Joker is a human; he can’t possibly be anything other than human with his warm, lively skin and the constellation of light freckles that line his upper cheeks and nose. The deep scars of his mouth make it so much more obvious, so much more in your face: I’m a human. I can be hurt. I can be scarred. I’m not just a nightmare or a villain or the monster lurking in the shadows. I can bleed just like you can. I’m <em>real</em>.</p><p>Bruce isn’t sure why those things make him more horrifying.</p><p>“If I’d known you were going look so ravishing, I’d have put more effort into my—” he pauses, wearing a toothy grin and rocking from one foot to another, hands behind his back. “—ensemble. Purple would’ve been too obvious, don’t you think?”</p><p>Bruce just stares, mind blank. The Joker raises an eyebrow. “You pay the bills in this place?” He looks around the room, seemingly taking the scenery in. Bruce’s face crumples in confusion and Joker juts his chin toward the sink that’s still running. The water has run cold by now and Bruce turns it off, shaking his hands erratically. As he goes to grab a hand towel, he realizes that his hands are trembling.</p><p>When he looks at The Joker again, he’s about a foot closer and it makes Bruce jump and turn around swiftly. He braces against the sink, hands holding onto it so tight his knuckles turn white. Joker tilts his head. “You know,” he chuckles. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Didn’t you hear me? Although, I admit, I do have the stealth of a particularly graceful cat.”</p><p>Bruce blinks. “I… wasn’t expecting you.”</p><p>“Usually when someone’s told to keep an eye out, they keep an eye out.” He says, bluntly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Did you think I said it as a joke?”</p><p>“No.” He answers, eyebrows raising. He takes a steadying breath, trying to ignore the way Joker’s slowly advancing on him. “I just… I didn’t expect you to be here.”</p><p>“Why not?” He licks his lips.</p><p>“What…” Bruce pauses, trying to steel himself. Trying to get rid of the butterflies in his stomach. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Well, that’s easy. I missed you.” Joker grins, the indentation of the scars deepening in likeness to dimples. Bruce can’t deny the way he heats up at the admission and tries not to visibly fawn. “And, I’ve got to say, I like fancy places. I like to look around at all the fancy chandeliers and drink all the fancy, bubbly champagne and watch all the fancy people.” He takes another step, looking down at Bruce and the slighter man can’t help but shrink, recoiling against the sink, hard granite digging into his lower back. “But tonight, I think I’m only gonna be looking at one fancy person.”</p><p>He breaks eye contact immediately, staring down at the tiles of the floor, feeling the heat of the other man’s body as he takes one last step right into his personal space. Bruce’s mouth goes completely dry as Joker unclasps his hands from behind his back and they fall at his sides. His right hand comes up and Bruce flinches, eyes going wide and shooting up to the other man’s face. A puzzled look crosses over Joker’s face and his hand stutters.</p><p>Bruce’s chest rises up and down so fast it feels like he’s on the precipice of hyperventilating. He’s so vulnerable right now, in the presence of this man and he really, really hopes that he doesn’t hurt him. It’s a very strange thought, bordering on silly, considering how much he <em>loved</em> it when he hurt him before in the darkness of that old, abandoned building. Yet somehow, here, in this gorgeous bathroom with big bright lights where his sight is impeccable and all of his senses are wide awake—it’s dawning on him how fucking real this all is and how much more likely it is that it could just be some scheme. Some way for the villain to hurt him again, make him suffer so much more than last time, although Bruce is having a hard time believing <em>that</em> is possible. That he could ever feel worse than he has these last few years in the aftermath of The Joker’s game. That he could ever <em>possibly</em> hate himself more than he currently does and then it hits him that he’s being awfully presumptuous thinking that there’s even more <em>room</em> for loathing in his body.</p><p>He’s sure there isn’t. Not when he knows for a fact that The Joker’s proximity to him right now is equal parts terrifying and <em>comforting</em>. How could he hate himself more when he knows that he likes the way it hurts when Joker has a hand tight on his neck. Likes the way it feels when his teeth break into his skin. When he’s got him backed up against a sink in the very public bathroom of The Wayne Foundation Building. Still, he can’t stand the thought of it all shifting.</p><p>Even if it is a scheme, even if it is just another way for The Joker to conquer him and make him yield, he hopes to whatever god is listening that he doesn’t hurt him the way he can’t possibly bear. The way it had been so many years ago that some of the memories had grown fuzzy, only vivid pictures of black and blue bruises, rumpled shirts where fists had dragged him and deep, even voiced threats. He doesn’t want it to hurt the way it did when he had received six slaps across the face, his cheek screaming so raucously he thought it would explode. He fears that sort of hurt—that sort of <em>pain</em> bleeding into the good kind that Joker has introduced him to, shitting all over it and making it ugly. And, hell, if he knows how his dad has somehow made it into his thoughts at a time like this. One thing he does know, though, is that he doesn’t want Thomas Wayne anywhere near… whatever this is.</p><p>Perhaps though, he realizes, staring at the man in front of him, his father is already all over this. He wonders if he’d still be here, right now, in this moment with this man if his dad were still alive. He wonders if he would still be here had his dad been nicer to him when he <em>was</em> here—if he had just limited the fucking hitting to <em>once a month</em>, then maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t be at the mercy of The Joker. Maybe he wouldn’t have been here, so fucked up and pathetic that people like The Joker, fucking predators, could smell it on him. Jesus, fuck, maybe shit would have been better. He would have been better. Normal, maybe. He wouldn’t be here and if he still was, he wouldn’t like it as much as he does. Crave it as much as he does. Lay down and take it the way he’s doing.</p><p>Thinking of these things doesn’t change anything, just brings all the shit he’s kept buried for so long up to the surface—making him more aware of how deep in pure despair he truly is. He feels hollower than a pin pricked egg.</p><p>He blinks.</p><p>Joker’s expression is uncharacteristically careful as he stares at Bruce, face asking a silent question that Bruce doesn’t know the answer to. He just bites the inside of his cheek, chewing on the gum there, knowing that he can’t tell him. He’ll laugh in his face. He won’t understand. One thing Bruce can do though, is allow him to make him forget, though. He can let him quiet the storm in his head, take away all the painful thunder and lightning and bring something else, something that can distract him. He can choose whether what the man brings for replacement tears him down more or not. Whether he lets it feel good or bad. He can let him fill him up with <em>Joker </em>until there’s no room for worry, hatred or regret. Not in the moment, anyway.</p><p>And yeah, maybe The Joker will fucking hurt him.</p><p>And maybe Bruce will let him.</p><p>“So much warring on in your noggin.” He deadpans, staring Bruce in the eye. He tries again, the hand that was frozen in midair beginning its dive toward the shorter man slowly. Bruce fights not to react, wincing slightly as the hand falls just beneath his jaw. It’s soft and warm, as soft as calloused hands can be, and it just rests there, fingers splaying on his neck and jaw. His thumb brushes Bruce’s lips and he shudders in response. Joker looks as if he’s about to say something else, but it dies in his throat as his eyes fall upon Bruce’s neck. His hand slides to Bruce’s chin and tilts his head to the side. Bruce doesn’t resist, just lets him examine him. Joker notices that the bite mark isn’t visible, hidden underneath the fabric of the man’s shirt but the hickeys that he <em>knows</em> line the upper part of Bruce’s neck are covered by a thin coat of some sort of makeup. A look of distaste forms on Joker’s face but before Bruce can open his mouth to ask what’s wrong, the man brings his free hand up to his mouth and licks two of his fingers, pressing them to Bruce’s neck.</p><p>Bruce yelps, the rough pressure of the man’s fingers on the still sensitive bruises sending a sharp pain up his neck. “W-What are you doing?” Joker doesn’t answer, just rubs more aggressively until the makeup starts to disappear and deep purple marks start to appear. Bruce doesn’t understand why he’s rubbing him, especially on a spot he knows is still sensitive. “Please, stop. Stop, you’re hurting me.”</p><p>He stops his movements when Bruce’s hand flies up to curl around his wrist. He fixes Bruce with an accusing stare that has a hint of amusement behind it. “You wear that stuff often?”</p><p>“W-what?” Bruce says.</p><p>“The makeup.”</p><p>Bruce blanches, twisting to look at himself in the mirror, Joker’s hand falling off his neck. He stretches his neck, looking at the spot he’d fully covered before leaving the house, seeing half of the concealer gone, dark bruises in its wake. Realization dawns on him. Of course. “Fuck.” He curses. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”</p><p>“What?” Joker asks innocently.</p><p>“You—fuck, you---” He stutters heatedly, turning back to face the man. He shakes his head, trying to get the words out. “I-I have to give a speech. There are going to be cameras, they’re streaming it on fucking CNN and you—” he twists again, staring at the spot, blood rushing to his cheeks. “I can’t have these on my neck on national television. I can’t.”</p><p>Behind him, The Joker cocks his head, lowering it unto Bruce’s shoulder. “Why not?” He asks, conversationally. “You look pretty.”</p><p>Bruce momentarily freezes at Joker’s compliment. He notices, a smile unfolding on his face. Bruce shakes it off, frowning. “I’m <em>Bruce Wayne</em>. If people see this, they’ll—”</p><p>“Oh, people this, people that.” Joker sighs, face resting against the virgin side of his neck. “You think those people don’t get shit sucked on their neck, Brucey?”</p><p>Irritation bleeds in his chest, making it hot. “Those people don’t have to give speeches about kids. I-If they did, they’d have the decency to cover it up. I can’t—”</p><p>Joker laughs, shrill and lined with ridicule. “Decency.” He says through his chuckles. He locks eyes with Bruce in the mirror. “I don’t believe that you and any sort of decency belong in the same sentence, Brucey.” Bruce swallows, shame curling in his stomach. Hands reach up to his collar, loosening his tie then his top button, then the one after that. A small amount of Bruce’s smooth flesh peeks from beneath the unbuttoned shirt and long fingers dip in on either side of the ‘V’ of the neckline. He pulls softly, revealing more skin and making Bruce’s breath catch in his throat. One large hand completely disappears beneath the shirt, pulling away the fabric until the darkened bite mark is into view. Bruce shudders when he sees it, shutting his eyes. “Open them.” He orders. “Now.” He does, eyes falling on the granite of the sink. “Look at it.”</p><p>He takes a shaky breath. For the second time of the day, he stares at the exposed deep bite on the junction between his shoulder and neck, Joker’s hands keeping the fabric of his shirt away. He automatically thinks of earlier, in his bathroom. The way he’d been able to come undone just by looking at it and feeling it with his fingers. For some reason, he feels especially scandalous, seeing it here in public with The Joker keeping it on display like a piece of art. “You know,” his voice rumbles in Bruce’s ear. “People have this thing about them I’ve never really liked. They all want to feel special. Like their lives matter. They know they don’t matter, but they want to feel it anyway. They get on their high horses and they put on this holier than thou act, and they <em>act</em> their asses off. They pretend and they laugh, looking down at other people because it makes them feel special and different and exclusive. But you wanna know something, baby?”</p><p>Bruce flinches as Joker’s fingers skim around the violet bruising of the bite. He can feel little lightning strikes of pain blooming on his skin in their wake. “W-what?”</p><p>“The secret is that they’re no better than anybody. Not me, not you, not a fucking hobo on the street. Truth is they’re probably just like me or you on the inside.” He sighs again. “A lot of them are jealous of people like you and me. The way we operate. You know how many people ache and salivate—would give their last penny to have the balls to do what I’ve done? Hell, some of them just want a taste of the chaos I’ve caused. The pain and the suffering.” He stares Bruce in the eye, his own dark eyes full of hilarity and excitement as his voice lazes on. “You know how many people want somebody that’ll suck on them the way I did to you?” He adds, voice dropping an octave.</p><p>Bruce whimpers. “You know how many people want to suck on <em>you</em> the way I did?” He downright snarls, his tone becoming heated. “Think of them as gifts, Bruce. Nobody hides a gift they’ve just got,” he muses. “Unless… they don’t like it.” He gulps in response, feeling his brain go fuzzy, eyes becoming heavier and fuck, he hates how easy it is for him to fall into this headspace—where everything is so distant and floaty and there’s nothing to hold onto. “Unless you don’t want people to know who you belong to.”</p><p><em>Belong to</em>. It fills him with warmth in ways it probably shouldn’t. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I like it.” He admits. Joker doesn’t answer so he continues. “I like it. I just... need people to respect me.  You have to know that… that nobody’s going to respect me if they see me like this.” He breathes, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Joker nods and Bruce visibly perks up. “Yeah? You understand?”</p><p>“Definitely.”</p><p>“You’re not mad?” He doesn’t even curse himself for sounding childish, a testament to the way he just really wants to be understood. Really wants The Joker to see things from his point of view.</p><p>“No.” He replies, his hands growing lax as he pulls away from Bruce. Bruce follows his warmth, turning away from the mirror to face him. He looks at him with wide, puzzled eyes. Hopeful.</p><p>“N-no?” He repeats, searching the taller man’s face.</p><p>Joker considers him for a moment, brown eyes watching him. “I understand that you want to be respected—” Bruce’s face is on the cusp of a smile when he says, “—but it’s not like people won’t eventually see you for who you are.”</p><p>“What?” Bruce’s voice cracks.</p><p>“I know who you are. This side, the one you show me. The one you don’t want them to see. There’s no philanthropist here, no billionaire, no<em> bullshit</em>. There’s only this. This is the only side of you that exists for real.” He shrugs. “They’ll see it too, soon, when you can’t hide it anymore.”</p><p>Bruce’s mouth gapes. “You know it’s true. You know you’re tired of pretending like this—” He gestures toward him. “—isn’t who you truly are. You won’t be able to keep up the façade.” He smiles. “You’re already getting sloppy with it, letting me unbutton your shirt in public. Anyone can walk in here and see you like this.” He whistles low, raising his head high and looking down at Bruce, and Bruce should really know what’s coming next with the way Joker’s eyes glint with amusement. The way the corners of his mouth twitch in excitement. Still, it feels like he’s pulled out a handgun and shot him directly in the goddamn balls when he tuts, “Batman would never do that.”</p><p>The color must drain from his face because Joker’s expression grows softer. Scarcely so, but Bruce sees it. Still he continues, relentless in his verbal beating, and, fuck, yes it feels like a beating. “I mean, don’t you <em>care</em>? You say you do, but <em>do you</em> <em>really</em>, Bruce?”</p><p>He doesn’t say anything, just sits in his words, soaking it up like a sponge. In this moment he feels like Joker is an extension of himself, dredging up all the shit that long sunk at the bottom of the ocean of his brain aloud. Cruelly dangling shit that he doesn’t want to think of in front of his face. After a minute, Bruce inhales. He can feel his eyes stinging and he really doesn’t want to cry.</p><p>He wishes so badly that it were anger boiling inside of him because then maybe he could tell Joker to leave. <em>Want</em> him to leave. Maybe he could punch him if he were angry. He knows that he has the strength to cause him real damage, he’s done it before, he can surely do it again. Yet, his hands can’t muster up what it takes to make a fist. He feels… paralyzed by the words that have been spoken to him. Trapped in his own body, wracking around inside of it with no way out. Maybe it’s a good thing that he doesn’t have what it takes to feel fury, to feel anything but nothing—no, but <em>deserving </em>of whatever shitty deck of cards life deals him. Because beating The Joker to a bloody pulp until he’s unrecognizable won’t solve anything.</p><p>It won’t make him feel less alone—in fact, it’ll probably increase his loneliness.</p><p> It won’t make all his issues go away.</p><p>It won’t make him happy; it won’t make everything he’s said less true. It’ll probably prove his point and make him more of a coward that’s unable to face the truth about himself.</p><p>It won’t… it won’t bring Rachel back. And maybe… maybe that’s good, too.</p><p>Regardless, he doesn’t have the energy, the range, the sanity he needs to talk about the hard-hitting shit Joker’s saying. He <em>can’t </em>talk about it. So, he deflects, looking at his watch. “A-Are you gonna stay?” He breathes hoarsely.</p><p>“Do you want me here?”</p><p>“Are you going to hurt anybody?” He side-eyes the villain.</p><p>He smiles, no teeth.</p><p>“Don’t—”</p><p>“Geez Louise, Brucey.” He exhales roughly, rolling his eyes. He looks at Bruce, another inquisitive look that makes the slighter man shift on his feet. “I won’t.”</p><p>The words make the ice that has settled on Bruce melt. “Promise.” Joker’s eyebrows hit the ceiling and he automatically feels sheepish. He adds, “Please. I need you to say it.”</p><p>The taller man doesn’t budge, staring at Bruce silently, and he feels the beginnings of frustration curling in his gut because he really needs him to say it. He needs to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth and he doesn’t understand why. It’s not like if he doesn’t hear it, he’ll tell him to leave and that simple truth within itself makes Bruce flinch. Makes him see something disheartening—the mask of Batman deteriorating, black metal falling piece by piece. His heart stutters in his chest and he steps closer to him. “P-Please.” He says and it’s really more of a whine than anything else. He clenches his eyes shut and his hands tremble. His next words are barely loud enough to be heard. “Please, Daddy.”</p><p>A beat passes and he worries that it wasn’t enough. Just as his heart begins to speed up, a hand cards through his hair and his eyes fly open. “I promise. I’m not gonna hurt anybody.”</p><p>Bruce nods, wide eyed, enjoying the light scrape of nails against his scalp. His body gravitates toward The Joker and by some thread of good luck, the man shifts and they’re out of the mirror’s reflection, Bruce’s body closer to the wall and out of sight from whoever comes into bathroom whistling a tune. He instantly crowds closer to The Joker in an attempt to hide, hands shaking. His next words come out cracked and quiet, “I can’t—<em>you</em> c-can’t let them see me like this.”</p><p>“Hey, shh, shh.” He’s shushed in an even voice that just serves to make fear settle deeper in his stomach.</p><p>“You <em>can’t</em>.” he says, sterner this time.</p><p>“You’ll be fine. Don’t you know that I’m going to make sure of that?” Bruce’s eyes shut again, tighter and he exhales an unsteady breath. Joker’s other hand comes up to his back, gently pushing him towards him and he relents until they’re pressed flush together. “Relax, Bruce.” And then he slumps in defeat, tension melting out of his body as he buries his head into The Joker’s chest. He wills his heart to <em>fucking stop</em>, follow suit with his body but it doesn’t listen and <em>how could it</em> when he’s in the bathroom at a very public, very crowded event with a guest just feet away whilst he is being embraced by a madman. A menace to Gotham. A killer—<em>Rachel’s</em> killer, his mind supplies just for kicks. How could it ever fucking stop when the man that <em>fucking killed</em> the love of his life is rubbing him on his back so feather soft, handling him like a porcelain doll? And Bruce is only human—one that hasn’t been touched in years—feeling a big, tall warm body flush against his own, so then it makes perfect sense that it feels <em>good</em>. It has to make perfect sense that he feels… safe.</p><p>It must be the coldest day in hell.</p><p>Lost in his head and the soothing heat surrounding him, he doesn’t even quite register the sounds of the man in the bathroom walking over to the sink after he’s relieved himself. The water running. It being shut off. The hand dryer roaring. The door closing behind the man. All he can register is the feeling of his scalp being rubbed and the feeling of him being so fully embraced by somebody. It’s so <em>good</em> he feels like he may be going into some sort of sensory overload and he makes a sound in his throat, light and content. “I know, I know.”</p><p>The hand comes down on his head again, surfing through his hair and he shifts, trying to get impossibly closer into the man’s arms, when he realizes that he’s hard. It brushes against Joker’s thigh and he can’t stop the surprised moan that crawls up his throat. Joker inhales sharply, his hand going still in Bruce’s hair, and Bruce blushes in response, face overcome with smoldering heat. He can’t lift his head from Joker’s chest, words coming out muffled when he says, “Sorry.”</p><p>The man doesn’t respond.</p><p>“Sorry,” He repeats, pleasure from the friction skirting up his spine. He bites his lip, forcing himself to step back a little, effectively removing his erection from the other man’s thigh. When Joker still doesn’t say anything, he continues, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why—I just…”</p><p>He’s cut off, words turning to ash on his tongue when Joker pushes him back lightly until he’s flush against the wall and places a knee between his legs. The press of his thigh is so sweet against him that Bruce whimpers, tilting his head back to hit the wall and daring to glance at the bigger man. He notes that their position is in likeness to the way they were last night—that he’s in the same spot. He thinks this could’ve been prevented if he’d just walked out of the bathroom. Would Joker had let him go? Why does it make him flinch to think that the man would’ve let him leave?</p><p>It’s probably better to be here. It’s meant to be this way. He’s meant to be this way.</p><p> He isn’t sure what to make of Joker’s facial expression except that it is downright prodding. He’s noticed that that’s the way he looks at him now, calculating and analytical like he’s some sort of science project. God, he feels like an object. He looks at him like he’s trying to pace himself, like he thinks if he pushes too hard Bruce will retreat into the shell of his body. Like maybe Batman might come out and he wants to be ready for the switch, just in case. Like Batman still exists inside of him somewhere and yeah, maybe he does, but Bruce can’t feel him anymore.</p><p>It’s so dark inside that he can’t see anything, he can’t find him anymore. And he thinks that maybe he’s fucking dead because by now, he would’ve come out and saved him from this, the way he does with everything else.</p><p>Maybe Bruce isn’t worth saving.</p><p> “You don’t know why?” Joker asks.</p><p>Bruce blinks. He shakes his head.</p><p>“You want me to tell you why?”</p><p>He swallows, suddenly coy. “Are you going to be mean?”</p><p>Joker cocks his head, a half smile forming on his lips. “Don’t you like it when I’m mean?” He breaks eye contact and Joker shifts his thigh, making Bruce’s hips stutter. “Don’t you like it when Daddy hurts your feelings? Makes you feel all bad inside?”</p><p>“I’m g-going to be late for my speech.” He mutters, trying to ignore the way his cock aches. “I have to…” He gulps. “… I have to give my speech.”</p><p>“Ask me.”</p><p>“What?” Bruce replies instantly, voice quiet. His brain puts two and two together shortly thereafter.</p><p>
  <em>Ask for his permission. You know you want to.</em>
</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>“Please.” Joker parrots, a hand coming to stroke Bruce’s cheek. “Please don’t be mean to me. Please don’t hurt my feelings. Please don’t let everybody see what I let you do to me.” He mocks, thumb rubbing circles into the man’s cheek. Bruce is pretty, really, so pretty. He grins soft, looking into Bruce’s eyes. “Don’t let anyone see…” he trails off, hand falling to Bruce’s neck. The Dark Knight’s throat constricts and his eyes water. “… how much of a whore I can be.”</p><p>“Please, let me give my speech.” Bruce says, voice rocky as a boy in the beginning stages of puberty.</p><p>“Don’t cry, Brucey, you’re gonna give your speech.” He states, smiling as the man brightens as much as he can with tears in his eyes. “Yeah, you will. And I’m gonna watch you. Daddy’s gonna watch you. You want me to do that?” Bruce nods. “Good. You’re going to do so good.”</p><p>He steps away from Bruce and the other man’s body immediately curls in on itself, arms wrapping around himself. He looks up at The Joker with wide, critical eyes, mirroring that of a deer in headlights. He isn’t sure himself why he’s just staring up at him, feeling so exposed whilst wearing all of his clothing, unsure of what to do next. “Make yourself presentable.” Joker says, taking a few steps back toward the mirror. When Bruce doesn’t move, he sighs heavily. “Isn’t that what you want, Bruce? To look presentable for all the people out there with their high noses and mountains of money? To have their respect so that they’ll like you? So that they’ll help you save the fuckin’ orphans?”</p><p>Bruce finds that he doesn’t have many words left in him. He wonders how he’s going to give his speech. He blinks.</p><p>“Come here.” He doesn’t. “Come on, Bruce.”</p><p>He really hopes he doesn’t cry again. He really doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t have anything to cry for. He doesn’t feel like there is anything worth crying for. He doesn’t <em>feel </em>anything at all except shame and… and <em>need</em>. “I don’t… I don’t want to do it anymore. I can’t. I have to let A-Alfred take me home.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>He shakes his head, eyes burning as he thinks of the people just outside that door, feet away. “They can’t see me this way.”</p><p>“I’ll help you fix yourself. They won’t ever know.”</p><p>“They will. As long as… as you’re still here they’ll know. I c-can’t,” He says, clenching the fabric of his suit jacket in his hands. “I can’t make it go away when you’re around.”</p><p>Joker seems to consider this, one side of his mouth casting downward in a frown. His hands clasp behind his back again. “I’ll leave.”</p><p>Something tears into Bruce’s heart and makes him groan and shut his eyes.  “Don’t. Please. Don’t leave me.”</p><p>“What do you want, Bruce?”</p><p>He swallows. “I don’t want you to leave me.” He opens his eyes. “Will you come with me?”</p><p>“Anywhere.”</p><p>Thomas Wayne most <em>definitely</em> rolls over in his grave at Bruce’s next words. “Home, please.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>No, really, why the FUCK is this chapter 10,000 words.</p><p>Thank you all for the support on the last chapter! People that read it on other platforms were pretty confused about the dynamic so I wanted to clear some things up:</p><p>In this fic, Bruce didn't take the fall for Harvey's shit therefore he's still in Gotham after the events of The Dark Knight and TDKR never happened. He's been in Gotham dealing with the events of Dark Knight and has been super depressed, self-loathing and all that horrible shit as a direct result of Rachel's death. He's fucked all the way up in this fic. He's empty and lonely, suffering from impostor syndrome after not being able to save the woman he loved. He feels like a fraud. He's self-destructive. He can't fit into the man persona he's made for himself anymore. He's trying to keep his shit together and he's so vulnerable, so tired of being Batman that he's willing to relinquish power over his life to his worst enemy. You could say he's trying to punish himself, if you want.</p><p>Hope you enjoyed and yes, I promise, they WILL fuck in the next chapter. Leave a comment and I look forward to getting the next one out soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bruce invites The Joker back to Wayne Manor.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you all for the overwhelming support! I never expected this literal bucket of filth to be liked by so many people. I appreciate it! i'm glad i could write something that people genuinely enjoy. i hope that this ending fulfills your needs. it's not edited, so ignore mistakes, i'll come back to do so at some point.</p><p>now, this thing has three major trigger warnings.</p><p>1. implied/referenced underage rape/molestation<br/>2. implied/referenced child abuse<br/>3. implied/referenced INCEST</p><p>if any of those things may trigger you or they're just not your thing, thank you for making it this far but i'd advise you to turn back!</p><p>enjoy and read the end notes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time he killed he was giddy with it.</p><p>Warped moving images of <em>Dynasty</em> were reflected in thick crimson blood that hadn’t begun to seep into the carpet just yet, as the television droned on. He held onto the mouth of the broken beer bottle in his hand with a death grip, drops of blood splattering erratically around the room as his hand shook.  His lip trembled, brain pounding against his skull and threatening to make him dizzy if only he wasn’t running on pure adrenaline. He felt it coursing through his veins like glass, cutting him from the inside out and making him sick with a certain kind of emotion he’d only felt vaguely before when his mother had hugged him. When she’d promised him she’d leave Donald. His eyes had sparkled then, with hope, with happiness. He’d been happy.</p><p>She’d lied.</p><p>Spoken honey sweet words off a wet and sticky taffy tongue into his ear.</p><p>She had always lied.</p><p>Until she didn’t and they were holed up in a motel a few miles away from their house. It was too late, then. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind; her head was jumbled, her plan a leaky faucet. Still, he’d tried to apply tape to it, believe that it could work.</p><p>“We’re gettin’ outta here, baby,” she’d drawled, breathless as she stuffed clothing into a duffle bag. Her eyes were red and lazy, smoke stuck to her shirt and powder dusting her nose. “I promised you, didn’t I?”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>She’d stuttered then, body and words. She looked at him, eyes pools of empty water and he’d dived in anyway. The waves were mistakenly calm and slow, underneath overcast skies. It tasted salty, unsure and sad. His stomach growled. She smiled. “Don’t worry about that. Let’s just get a move on. We’ll stop for somethin’ to eat on our way, alright?”</p><p>He’d nodded.</p><p>The motel wasn’t nice, but nothing had ever been thus far. It smelled like their own house, like roaches, drugs and stale popcorn. If he shut his eyes, he could imagine he was laying in his own sofa-bed. His mother had curled up in the recliner, watching television, shooting him smiles whenever she caught his eye. He’d smiled back, hope and dread clashing in his brain. He wanted to feel happy—she’d done it. She’d got them out.</p><p>He wouldn’t ever see Donald again.</p><p>After the bruise on her eye faded, he’d never see his mother’s skin less than perfect again. It felt good and he wanted to be fucking happy about it.</p><p>But it was too late; Mom wasn’t the same as before Donald. Mom wasn’t the same as before the divorce either.</p><p>Mom’s smiles were fake, held up by an invisible puppet master. Sometimes his hands got tired and slipped, and she couldn’t hold her lips up on her own. She frowned a lot. He preferred that, in a way. At least it was real.</p><p>Mom was broken. Donald had infiltrated her body and mind and sullied her authenticity. He’d made a home for himself in her veins, stronger than the drugs. His essence consumed her, eating her whole, floating through the length of her body until he couldn’t see where she began and Donald ended.</p><p>They were one.</p><p>He woke up to sounds of skin slapping skin. Raw, unfiltered anger grabbed him by the throat in a bruising grip. It licked him with a searing hot tongue, invigorating him, making his skin burn. He felt like God had rewarded his endurance by dipping him in lava, snatching away the rusting chains of his sanity and freeing him from crippling helplessness. He made a son out of him that night, Lucifer and all the other fallen angels be damned.</p><p>It felt right smashing Donald’s Guinness on the bedside table and stabbing the sharp, shark teeth of it into his mother. It felt right to stab her in the chest, right where her heart lurked beneath her ribs. The entire thing felt religious, like he was a righteous god, not a demon, bestowing judgment upon her. Making her feel the pain he’d felt when his own heart slammed against his chest with anxiety whenever Donald’s voice rose. The electric phantom pain that he felt watching Donald backhand her. The fucking bile up his throat when he choked her. The helplessness when he slammed her head against the wall.</p><p>It felt fitting to give her the pain he felt because she obviously didn’t have any of her own, impaling herself on Donald’s dick. Pleasure and pain for her were interchangeable and he’d never had that luxury. It was always either or—and pain was his default.</p><p>Mom always lied.</p><p>He liked this—he felt powerful.</p><p>He liked the way Donald screamed at him to stop—it made him feel like a god, like he held all of the cards. He liked the way it looked like Donald would have done anything he asked to make him stop. He liked being in control.</p><p>He liked the frigid, permanent expression of shock on his mother’s lifeless face.</p><p>Vindication tasted sweet as a Georgia peach, watching the police take Donald away for his own sin. His mouth burned, blood dripping from the wounds surrounding it, as he stared at the glint of silver handcuffs around the man’s wrists. His eyes tracked the dried blood on his bare chest, as well as the bleeding bite marks from the beer bottle. They looked like they hurt. The corner of his mouth lifted minutely.</p><p>Blue and red flashed in his vision. “And then what happened son?”</p><p>“I pulled him off of her, t-told him to stop.” He shifted underneath the towel, pulling it tighter against his body. Warm tears fell down his cheeks. “He got mad. Told me I should be grateful he came to rescue us, that Gotham was too dangerous for us to be out here alone—that we needed h-him.”</p><p>The officer made notes, face contorted in pity. “What else?”</p><p>“He asked me why I looked so serious. Told me I ought to smile. He cut me.”</p><p>“Shit.” The other officer said, face a sickly green.</p><p>He stared at the officer. “Is it that bad?”</p><p>Perhaps it was, he thought, feeling the wounds sting. Perhaps he’d cut himself too deep. Perhaps they’d scar. Maybe god saw it fit to give him a souvenir—thought he’d forget what it felt like.</p><p>But he could never forget. His feet shook, legs jumping with nerves.</p><p>He was giddy with it.</p><p>Yet.</p><p>Grateful as he was for this reverent gift—this opportunity to extinguish the crippling flames of his fear and burn the pale, bleak cloak that seemed to cast a shadow over his life—personal vengeance felt an ill-fitting suit on him. It felt too big and spacey for it to ever fit and he knew he’d never grow into it. Seeing his mother sitting in a pool of the very thing meant to keep her alive, he knew he wouldn’t kill that way again. And how could he? He was many things but a selfish man he was not. He knew that was not and could never be him—not when there was so much more to be done otherwise. He’d known it the first time he saw Donald sucker punch his mother. When his mother had hugged him tighter against her side when passing homeless people, as though they were much better than them—living in a rundown house that could never, ever be called a home. Needing to walk ways down to a public well for water to bathe in. He’d known, watching couples waltz out of limousines with more money in the form of glimmering chains and jewels than he’d ever be able to touch in his lifetime. He’d seen the way they had turned their noses up at the needy—those buried in mountains of tattered fabric meant to make an outfit, nails chipped and dirty, bruises on temples from cement pillows.</p><p>He’d seen other things, too, working in the city. Wealthy women with clear, liquid weakness running down their cheeks in excess that no amount of silk fingers could ever properly dry. He had seen their eyes—red, wet and tired. He’d seen their smiles, plastered on thick and synthetic. Money couldn’t help them, maybe it had before, but then it had no value—they always left a hefty tip.</p><p>Even now, he can’t quite understand it—his relationship with money. Sometimes he feels one way, sometimes another. He can appreciate what it means to people, after going to bed with his stomach screaming expletives at him. After having his landlord yell at him, making a point to let him know that he was only getting a pass because he was a kid. He can admit it felt good at one point, the dollar bills in his hand no matter their value, no matter if they were crisp and fresh out of the ATM or crumpled to hell out of his pocket. Looking at a food truck worker with burning, tearful eyes and an empty stomach running off nothing but Cheetos and tap water can do that—make money feel like God and you, a worshipper. Yes, at one point, it felt thick with piety, the way his mouth would salivate at the sight of his cheque after a week stuffed with long, sweaty hours, heavy eyes, shaky legs and insults hurled at him from patrons.</p><p>In those times, he could’ve fell to his knees and praised a single dollar bill. Worshipped it like a deity, thanked it for buying him a fucking M&amp;M out a vending machine.</p><p>He isn’t sure still, if it was this that urged him, drove him to become what he is today.</p><p>The thing is this, though: he always knew that he’d kill again. At first, he thought it’d be soon after his mother. But time passed—a lot of it. He hadn’t done anything illegal really, except pickpocket a few rich assholes. But murder? Murder was the last thing on his mind for a long time. Maybe he felt a particular itch now and then, dealing with idiot customers, seeing kids bully a lesser on the street or a guy giving his girl a venomous look hidden under sweetness, but it was nothing serious. He learned how to live with it, not everyone was good. He sure wasn’t—not then and certainly less so now. He was hardly one to throw stones from a glass house, but at least he <em>tried</em>.</p><p>The memory is fuzzier than his first time but still, if he thinks about it, it seems like Blu-Ray playback in his mind. The way the man bled, his blood so rich in thickness and color. So warm as it gushed on his skin, erupting out of the perfect slice on his throat. He was the last customer for the night and even now, he doesn’t get it. He was used to people being rude and obnoxious, in excessive numbers even when families or work buddies would come in. It had always been annoying, yes, and it’d been fine, he could handle it. And honestly, it wasn’t as if that shift had been particularly bad that day. It was the same old, same old, and if he wanted to be especially truthful, the day had been good.</p><p>Now that he thinks about it, maybe that was what did it.</p><p>The day had been <em>good</em>.</p><p>“Hey, what’s taking the cook so long?” He had grimaced at the voice a couple tables away from where he was, counting the drawer of the bar. The sudden sound made him lose count and he sighed, wracking his brain for his last memory of the total.</p><p>“Did you hear me?” The man’s voice came again, a touch of annoyance tainting his tone.</p><p>“Sorry, sir. I don’t know, I’ll check.” He apologized, moving to shove the money back into the drawer, figuring that he’d count later once this last patron had left. By some stroke of bad luck, the bills dropped from his hand, splattered across the floor.</p><p>He cursed, scrambling to the floor, collecting the bills. Perhaps he was lost inside of his head, still attempting to retrieve the lost memory of his counting, because he didn’t hear when the man had risen from his seat. When he stretched up to his full height, dollar bills in hand, he startled at the man peering at him inquisitively across the bar counter. The man nodded at the money in his hand. “What’re you doing with that?”</p><p>He momentarily paused, mouth gaping. “Nothing. Just counting the drawer.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>His eye twitched. “It’s nearly the end of my shift, I’m just trying to make sure the drawer’s correct, sir.”</p><p>“Yeah,” the man mused as he ran his fingertips across his chin in thought. “But I’m still here. Maybe you should do that when all the customers are gone, don’t you think?”</p><p>“You’re our last customer, sir.”</p><p>“You don’t know me from a can of corn, boy. I could be a thief for all you know. I could take that money and run with it and you wouldn’t do shit about it,” He remarked, lips tilting into a menacing smile. He shook his head. “I won’t do that, though.” The man’s eyes raked down his body. “But some men are different. Depraved. They just take whatever they want, don’t care who they hurt. You must know about those kinds of men, a young thing like you. You don’t have to worry about that, though. I prefer when what I want is given to me. I only take it when I have to.”</p><p>He jammed the money into the open drawer, shutting it tight. The man’s suggestive words made his clothing uncomfortably tight, made his palms sweat and his heart stutter. “I-I’ll just go on and check on your order.”</p><p>Maybe it was the blood rushing through his ears, pounding inside of his skull, the callous, hungry look in the man’s eyes, or maybe it was just due time, but he didn’t realize how easy it would be for the man to grab him. Fingers wound tight around his wrist over the bar counter in a bruising grip, pain prickling his skin and his heart was beating so fast, then there was a knife, the sharp teeth of it digging into the patron’s throat. His adam’s apple bobbed, the blade just above it, his hands were sky high in surrender, trembling. The man was so nervous, and it made some kind of flame flicker inside of him, so damn scorching, so painful, so <em>good</em>. “H-Hey now,” the man breathed, a nervous smile at his lips that couldn’t meet his eyes. His eyes. They’d just been so smug, so callous, so predatory and<em> now</em>, “<em>Jesus</em>, kid. Look, I didn’t mean any harm.”</p><p>He nodded, seemingly considering the man’s words. Truth be told, he didn’t want to consider them. There was something so vile, so wrong about that man—something so <em>fraudulent </em>that it made his insides twist. Because, yes, he and the man were alike in a way. They both had this affinity, if it can be called that, for wounded things. They both found pleasure in the bleeding baby bird fallen from his mother’s nest, the deer bitten by the lion, the young boy with no place to truly call home. But there was a difference, a stark one, that made them opposites—that made one man a true animal and the other a fake. The bloodhound can only be called a bloodhound for its distinctive sense of smell, the lion can only be called a predator for its ability to find suitable victims—this man, try as he may have, was a lost, wobbling hyena amongst wolves in sheep’s clothing. His thirst, his hunger for the broken overshadowed his sight, detrimentally so, because if he could have seen properly, if he ever were truly a predator, he would have seen the snout protruding out under soft white wool from a mile away. He would have smelled it on him.</p><p>This man was nothing like he was. He had never had to pretend—it was he, that could smell blood in the water no matter the distance. He smiled a ghastly thing. “Beg me.”</p><p>The man had blanched. His mouth parted, soft sounds coming out. “W-What?”</p><p>“Isn’t that what you would’ve had me do? Beg you?” He whispered. The man shook his head. He hummed in thought. “No? Then you’re a better man than I ever will be.” The patron’s eyes had swum then, so many different emotions, the stench of fear putrid in the air. He looked so much like raw realization then. So much like regret. “I could’ve sworn you were going to make me beg. I’d have bet money on it, too. If I were you, I’d have made me beg you for mercy. Kind of like what I’m doing now.”</p><p>He pressed the knife harder down on the man’s skin, dots of blood circling the blade. “Shit. Please. Please let me go. I didn’t mean it—”</p><p>He laughed then, high-pitched and screeching, so shrill that it ran shockwaves up his own body. He had never laughed like that before, it felt rejuvenating, like he unlocked a new power. He blinked, looking at the man. “Were you going to do it here?”</p><p>“Please. Don’t—”</p><p>“You weren’t. You don’t have the balls. I do.” The cut is clean yet jagged and the blood shoots out like a geyser, coating his face and clothing with crimson. His tongue darts out to taste and the man grasps at his throat, hands slippery with his own plasma, fingertips dipping into the wound. The man’s eyes are wide again, life just beginning to go transparent, staring at him. He stares back.</p><p>His mouth curls like a lizard tail. “You were wrong, sir. I am the man that is different and depraved.”</p><p>Details about what happened next are irrelevant, except the fact that a single man’s murder set off a chain of events that eventually brought him to The Batman. In short words, he’d been successful in making a name for himself in Gotham’s crime world. He’d done what needed to be done for the greater good—for people to wake up and <em>see</em>. He has killed, burned and beheaded to prove his point, to complete his one true mission on earth—for people to wake up and see the world for the whirlwind of disaster it is and embrace it. None of this had ever been about him, he had never once thought about anything other than his purpose, than raw, virgin chaos, than doing the earth the favor it so desperately needed. People so desperately needed to be free and they’d never understand until they were forced out of their comfy little bubbles and urged into who they truly were.</p><p>Time clashed into itself over the years, until all he had was one cohesive memory of enemies and bullets and fire, but it didn’t matter because he was the forefront of a movement. It could never matter when he was so much more than a man, when he had long transcended from simply being a man to being an idea that people were willing to dedicate their lives to. When it’s like that death becomes irrelevant, merely a thought floating at the back of your head. When you know that your death will trigger riots fueled by like-minded individuals willing to wear your legacy like a crown, scepter and shield, there is little regard for life.</p><p>But Batman.</p><p>Oh, Batman, how he trickled like cold water in a long-dried creek, quenching a thirst Joker never knew he had. There was a way about him, that Dark Knight, coming out from the shadows and hitting first, asking questions later. There was a rush that ran through him whenever Batman spoke, extra when he touched him. The touches were never friendly, he had bruises lasting weeks and bloody noses to prove it, but that was half the fun. Batman was so very worthy, so very valiant and brave facing Joker and his men.</p><p>Though an immensely worthy adversary, The Batman was so much more. He was a lot like him, more than a man, something of an idea, something for the people of Gotham to believe in. The thing is, Joker had never given much thought to the man underneath the mask. He was so utterly taken with the thick, obsidian metal of his suit and the threatening rasp of his voice, the familiarity of him fulfilling his single mission, his single compulsory need to <em>save </em>that he’d never once had a chance to ponder about who The Batman truly was. It did not matter, really, and he had never wanted to know, never wanted the perfect connection they had to be tainted by things as aimless as true identity. Alas, the entire “reveal your identity” shtick was just a bit of fun, he knew that The Batman wouldn’t bite come hell or high water, and yes, that was what he loved most about the Dark Knight. His commitment to his cause mirrored Joker so beautifully and completely that there was no denying they were made for each other.</p><p><em>You complete me</em>.</p><p>It was so beautiful, so fateful, and it filled him with pride knowing that many people never experience such a connection fueled by unfiltered emotion and brutal commitment. He would never kill Batman, to do so would be to kill himself, though he fantasized about it often in Arkham after his arrest. He fantasized a lot about torturing Batman with knives and gloved hands, tasting his blood, drinking it from a wine glass. So divine, that would be. So perfect that would be, tearing The Batman apart and then putting him back together again, piece by gory piece. After all, he was the only one that could do so, that had the right to, being his other half and all. It seemed just, him being the one to gift him sweet pain, just as he had done to him with his fists. Batman had to know, had to <em>see, </em>how beautiful it could all be.</p><p>He longed to finish what he had started, to bring Batman to a heel—then let him go so that they could do it all over again. That, in his opinion, was a perfect way to live. That was the only thing that made him care about death. Before, he hadn’t cared if he died by the hands of a random gunman, a bus above the speed limit or if he tripped over the platform into a moving train, but things had changed. If he were to die, he’d have it be by the hands of The Batman, nothing else would do.</p><p>Oh, The Batman.</p><p>The Batman he’d fought tooth and nail to get back to, to come home to, to reconnect with in the most thoughtful of ways… was gone.</p><p>In his place was someone completely different, no longer the idea, the concept, the completion he had left behind but simply a man.</p><p>Never in a million years had Joker thought of he and Batman’s connection as romantic, sensual maybe, burning hot with chemistry that could not be denied, but romantic, no. Long had he desired to conquer The Batman, but it was meant to be a game of interchangeable cat and mouse. But now, he cannot deny that there is little interchangeable about the dynamic between he and Bruce Wayne. From the moment he laid eyes on the man in the dim light of that abandoned building, he knew that it could never be the way it was with Batman because Bruce Wayne was not Batman.</p><p>Who Bruce Wayne is, is undebatable. Bruce is a wounded baby bird, bleeding from his beak, flapping bruised wings and Joker is the human that doesn’t bother to put it out of its misery. He is the man that watches and prods, feeling for sore spots and smiling at the animal’s pained chirps. He is the man that takes it home to nurse it just as much as it needs to stay alive, then takes away the medication.</p><p>And Bruce, broken little thing that he is, seems to enjoy this game. Despite his tears and pleading words, Bruce still flocks to him when he pulls away like an abandoned child. And, truly, if anyone were to ask The Joker, that is what Bruce Wayne is at his core. An abandoned little boy. It doesn’t say much about his character that the thought makes him hard enough to cut clean through glass, but then again, he’s never pretended to be the most courteous man or a courteous man at all. No, he’s depraved, and he wears it on his sleeve. His darkness runs deeper than the ocean and he is twisted beyond repair, brain melted then molded into the sort of distinct oddity that is the perfect match for a man like Bruce Wayne.</p><p>It’s wrong, what he’s doing, he knows that. He knows that he is the lowest of the low, he can feel his belly burning against hot fire as he slithers in the trenches of hell, he knows that he is horrible but for some reason the <em>knowing </em>just serves to make it better. There’s no way that this could ever end well, he knows, following Bruce Wayne out of a discreet exit of the Wayne Foundation Building. The night is cold, when the doors shut behind them.</p><p>They walk.</p><p>They catch a taxi.</p><p>Bruce is quiet, but his body is loud. His hands are shaking in his lap and he’s pulled taut as a string, teeth biting into his lip. The taxi driver is very oblivious to the way Bruce is commanding the atmosphere, running it electric with nerves, his current zapping through the air. He’s staring outside of the taxi, he can’t look at him, not now, Joker knows that. He knows that he should give Bruce this—a moment to get his bearings together, to recover from their dalliance in the bathroom, yet…</p><p>Joker’s never been selfish this way. He hasn’t wanted for so long, hasn’t ever found satisfaction in self-serving things, but Bruce. Bruce just has a way about him that tears open his gasoline heart and sets fire to it, breeding nothing but desire. He <em>could</em> fight it, really, the desire to touch Bruce, but he’s so pretty here in this taxi, a bundle of nerves about to burst, and Joker doesn’t <em>want</em> to fight it.</p><p>Bruce nearly jumps out of his skin when Joker’s hand slithers in the crevice between his back and the taxi seat. He stares at him with those big eyes, visible under the flash of city lights, and he has to bite back an obscene, animalistic sound. It’s silly, he knows, borderline juvenile, the way he doesn’t want to wait, but Bruce does that to him. Bruce makes him do silly things like touch him in taxis and take off his makeup and slick his hair back to look like one of <em>them </em>just so that he can see him<em>. </em></p><p>His arm stretches further behind his back, hand curling at his waist and tugging lightly. It’s both an invitation and an order that Bruce takes and obeys, sliding closer. Joker tugs him, rough, until they’re flush side to side. His hand drops lower, pinky and ring finger resting on Bruce’s thigh, index, middle and thumb on his abdomen. He feels the way Bruce shivers, then the way he stiffens.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for Joker to figure out why—the soundless taxi driver’s beady little eyes are peering through the glass, narrowed in focus. Bruce flinches, subtly trying to untangle himself from The Joker. He could really let Bruce have this, let him pretend that he has a shred of dignity left but he doesn’t want to. He increases his grip on Bruce, tugging him back to his side. “Be good.”</p><p>Bruce doesn’t relax, in fact he gets even more stiff, body taut with the energy it takes not to try to get out of The Joker’s grip again. The driver doesn’t say anything, just spares glances at them, particularly at Bruce. Joker’s willing to guess he recognizes his face from some news outlet or interview, maybe even a magazine cover and is trying to work out his identity and it’s harmless, truly. But it’s making Bruce uncomfortable—he’s squirming, and his hands are shaking—and the only person that’s allowed to make him uncomfortable is The Joker. He’s just about going green with jealousy when they pull up to the gates of Wayne Manor, thinking of ways he can get rid of the driver without making Bruce inconsolably angry at him.</p><p>Bruce climbs out first, fishing through his pockets for his wallet. He tips the man considerably for the ride, most likely a payout for his silence. Joker mulls over better ways that the man could’ve been silenced as they walk through the front door of the manor.</p><p>He follows Bruce through archways, looking around at the luxurious interior, and watches him shed his suit jacket with shaky hands. He follows him straight into a wide living room and watches him light the fireplace, then drudge over to where the bar is. He watches from a distance as Bruce takes out two glasses from underneath the bar and places them on the granite countertop, avoiding Joker’s eyes. He pulls out a scotch and Joker hums, causing him to jump, as if he’s just remembered that the man was here. He swallows, staring down at one of the glasses. “What?”</p><p>Joker shakes his head. “Nothing.” Bruce breathes deeply, resuming his actions. His fingers turn the cap of the bottle and he places it on the counter. Joker walks toward him slowly, watching as he pours out a finger of scotch. He pours another, then downs one. He grimaces at the taste.</p><p>“Need a little liquid courage, Batsy?” He asks, leaning on the front of the bar.</p><p>Bruce grimaces, then pours more of it in the glass. “Don’t.”</p><p>Joker smiles. “How do you drink that?”</p><p>Bruce eyes the liquor, still evading eye contact. He states, “You don’t drink.”</p><p>“If I poison myself any further, the world would be putty underneath my heel.” Joker responds.</p><p>Bruce huffs a humorless chuckle. He downs the scotch again. “I didn’t peg you as the kind of person that cares about what happens to society.”</p><p>“Well, I must, to a certain extent, Bruce. I can’t be a menace to society if there is no society, can I?”</p><p>Bruce lets the question hang in the air. He bites his lip then reaches out for the glass originally poured for Joker. Joker’s hand latches on his wrist and Bruce’s eyes fly up to meet his. “Ah, ah, ah. That’s mine, isn’t it?”</p><p>Bruce’s lips part, gaping as he tries to get the words out. He tries to break eye contact, but Joker brings his free hand up to hook under his chin. He pulls and Bruce’s body slides up on the counter, his hands coming down on the granite to balance himself.  “That’s enough of that, now, Bruce.”</p><p>His teeth grind together softly, rocking his jaw and he says, “You said you didn’t drink, I thought you wouldn’t want it.”</p><p>“You’re right.” He lets go of Bruce’s chin, grabbing the glass in question and eyeing the brown liquor inside of it. He brings it up to sniff it and wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want it. I’m not drinking it,” He tosses the glass over his shoulder and it bursts into a thousand shards on the wooden floor. He cocks his head to the side. “And neither are you. Ta-da.”</p><p>“You—”</p><p>“Why’d you invite me here, Bruce?” Bruce stares at him, taken aback by his question. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. “You said you didn’t want me to leave you alone. Well, here I am, all the way back to <em>Wayne Manor</em>. Now what?”</p><p>“I don’t… know.”</p><p>Joker laughs. “You thought you’d pour a couple drinks and get drunk enough to forget who I am, is that it?” The slighter man’s face flushes. Joker rounds the bar, peering down at Bruce. Bruce isn’t a tiny man, he’s an average height and he’s toned from years of fight and muscle training, but Joker is taller—bigger, especially with him outside of the Batsuit. Joker feels some of the blood in his body run south when he goes so close that Bruce has to look up at him, his face all red. He cocks his head this way and the next, staring at him, intimidating him, watching his face just on the verge of crumbling from the weight of his presence.</p><p>“Make no mistake, Brucey,” He leans in, face almost level to Bruce’s. He lifts an arm and Bruce flinches, like he’d done earlier. He noted it then and he notes it again. He wonders if Bruce really thinks he’d hit him. It’s an exciting thought that opens a hole inside of Joker that’s filled with equal parts intrigue, humor and anger. He wonders if he should tell him that he’d never hit him, he’d hurt him, <em>yes</em>, <em>god</em>, how could he not, but hitting him isn’t something he’s interested in. Maybe, if Bruce ever asked, he’d change his mind, but that isn’t the breed of monster he is. He’s thought, though, about who was that kind of monster in Bruce’s life and he thinks he’s figured it out. It’s the only logical explanation, really, and it’s the delicious sort of fucked up he has to save for later to truly enjoy. For now, he smiles. “If you’re going to be with me, you’re going to remember it. Did you think I’d let you black out on me?”</p><p>His hand stretches out to the bottle of scotch since forgotten on the bar. He knocks it over and it spills out onto the counter. “Sobriety. Can you do that for me? Because if you can’t, I’m going to have to leave.”</p><p>Bruce nods. “Yes. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Good boy.” Bruce’s face softens. The Joker smiles. “I’m chilly, now. Are you chilly?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>In all the ways he’s ever colossally fucked up in life, bringing The Joker home to Wayne Manor is at the top of the list.</p><p>The minute he uttered the invitation, he felt the weight of his mistake heavy on his shoulders, but he couldn’t take it back, not when he didn’t want to. He should’ve taken it back, fuck knows he should have taken it back, but he didn’t, and he was already walking over to Alfred, pulling him to the side.</p><p>Bruce had never been a particularly good liar and Alfred had always been overtly observant, so it was a wonder that he didn’t combust as he spewed some shit about a stomachache to the older man. Alfred had looked at him skeptically, with narrowed eyes and an arched brow and Bruce had tried to plead as much as he could with his own eyes. “Could you speak on my behalf, Alfred?”</p><p>“I don’t know, Master Wayne—”</p><p>“Please. Please, you know the speech verbatim, you helped me write it, you can do it. Please, just—” He’d inhaled, shutting his eyes. When he opened them, Alfred looked even more concerned. Shit, he hated lying to him. “I can’t do it, Alfred. Please. Please, don’t make me beg. I can’t.”</p><p>Alfred had swallowed, looking at him sharply. “Fine. I’ll give the bloody speech.”</p><p>Bruce’s eyes had lit up. “Thank you. Thank you.”</p><p>“Just call when you get home alright, let me know you’re safe.” Alfred had said through a particularly crushing hug from Bruce.</p><p>“I will.”</p><p>“Take your vitamins, Master Wayne. I’ll be home soon as I can, soon as it’s done.”</p><p>Bruce had agreed, knowing that The Joker would be long gone by the time of Alfred’s arrival. After all, he wasn’t sure why he even invited him over. He didn’t want to be alone, not in the aftermath of the storm of ancient feelings Joker had conjured up. He felt like he’d been beaten mercilessly, so fatigued and heavy but also, nice. He felt nice. It felt nice, maybe therapeutic if he was willing to push it that far. Joker was right. About everything.</p><p>Bruce had lived a lie for so long that he could no longer fathom reality. His walls had crumbled greatly over the past few years in the wake of Joker’s destruction and he’d tried, aimlessly to put the pieces back together, to get back to some kind of normalcy, but he could see now, clear as day that things could never go back to normal because normal wasn’t real. The Joker had come back now, here again, and he’d come armed with a wrecking ball, shoving down everything Bruce had worked so hard to build, to obtain, to <em>be </em>and it is depressing to watch it all fall down. It’s heart wrenching to see it all torn down, made into rock and ash, and to see the face of who he thought he was laying in the rubble. It’s more painful even, to face who he truly is after it has been hidden under layers of disguise for so long.</p><p>
  <em>You know it’s true. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You know you’re tired of pretending like this isn’t who you truly are. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You won’t be able to keep up the façade.</em>
</p><p>It hurts. It hurts, so fucking bad and he can feel his heart clench and spasm in pain. He can feel it breaking, cracking right down the middle and he feels so lucky, so disgusted, so <em>grateful </em>that he doesn’t have to be alone with it.</p><p>The Joker can fix it.</p><p>They’re sitting in front of the fireplace like lovers. Joker’s arm rests on the back of the couch, Bruce can feel it at the back of his head. His legs are spread wide, <em>he’s</em> spread wide like a cat. It feels more like The Joker’s home than his own. Bruce is nervous, his skin is prickling with it and his right leg is jumping, the fabric of his pants rustling in the dead quiet. They’re staring at the fire. “You’re thinking real loud.” He bites his tongue on a sorry, forcing his leg to stay still. “I love fire, don’t you?”</p><p>“No.” Bruce answers softly, head light from the scotch. “I hate getting burned.”</p><p>“You should try being on the other end. Burning people is much more fun.”</p><p>Bruce doesn’t expect himself to laugh but he does. Maybe Joker doesn’t expect it either because he can see his head snap in his direction in his peripheral vision. Bruce inhales slowly. “You’re being nice.” He can’t stop the words from spilling out.</p><p>“Am I?” He asks.</p><p>Bruce nods. “Yeah. I… I like it. When you’re nice.”</p><p>“I thought you liked when I’m mean.”</p><p>Bruce swallows. He balls his fists tight enough to feel his fingernails digging into his palms. He spares a glance at The Joker, winces at the prodding look in his eyes. He bites his lip until he tastes blood. He huffs out all the breath in his lungs, pushing the words out his throat. “I… love it when you’re mean.” Joker’s face pales slightly, like he didn’t expect Bruce to admit it. Bruce forces himself to hold eye contact, even though he can feel his skin heating up and his eyes stinging. “I hate that I love it. There’s something wrong with me. I shouldn’t love it—n-not from you.”</p><p>Joker doesn’t say anything, just stares back at him. Bruce looks into his eyes and he can’t decipher the emotions behind them, it’s all muddled, carefully guarded. Bruce doesn’t have anything to lose. The dam breaks. “I should hate you—I do hate you but… I <em>crave </em>you. I only can have this with you. You’re the only one that’s makes me this way. I hate you.”</p><p>“Bruce—”</p><p>“No, I hate you. You ruined my life. You took everything from me. You destroyed me. You killed her.” A tear drops from his eye. “You killed Rachel. You killed me. You killed <em>him</em>.” He gasps, throat tight. He tears his eyes away from the man, hugging himself and making himself smaller. He stares into the fire, watching it crackle. “I wish you’d killed me. I wish anyone had killed me then, I wish I had died. I wanted to kill myself and you did that to me. Y-You made me want to die.”</p><p>A beat passes. “And now?”</p><p>“Now, I still want to die.” Bruce admits. He shakes his head. “But now, I only want to die if <em>you </em>kill me.”</p><p>The Joker makes a strangled sound, caught in his throat. Bruce feels him move closer. “Say it again.”</p><p>Bruce turns his head, peering through blurry eyes. The fire illuminates The Joker’s face. He’s flushed when Bruce blinks the tears away. Realization washes over him. “You like this.”</p><p>“Say it again, Bruce. Now.”</p><p>Bruce shifts, legs pulled up to his chest on the couch. He tightens his arms around his legs. “What part?”</p><p>“You know what part.”</p><p>He does. His lip trembles. “I only want you to kill me.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” He curses. His legs shift. Bruce’s eyes drop to his lap. He’s hard. It makes Bruce fill up with shame, embarrassment, rage and a fourth emotion he doesn’t want to admit.</p><p>“You like hearing about my pain.”</p><p>“Only when I’ve done it,” He admits, voice raspier. His eyes darken with his next words. “I’d fucking kill anybody else that touched you, Bruce. I’d fucking skin anybody that ever made you feel bad. I’d do it.”</p><p>Bruce swallows. He doesn’t ever want to be responsible for the death of another person but his interest piques anyway. “Really?”</p><p>“Fuck, yes.” Joker says, moving even closer. His thigh hits Bruce’s feet, still in his shoes. The arm draped over the couch moves, hand coming down to rest at the back of Bruce’s head, fingertips grazing his hair. “Didn’t I tell you that I’ll always make sure you’re okay? Nobody’s ever going to hurt you again and get away with it.”</p><p>“You hurt me too. You always hurt me and you always get away with it.” Bruce deadpans despite his heart warming at the words.</p><p>“Only me,” Joker’s hand clasps the back of his neck, fingers rubbing softly. “Just me, Bruce. Nobody else.”</p><p>Bruce bites the inside of his cheek. “You lie to me, too.”</p><p>“Not about this.” He says, staring into Bruce’s eyes. “I want to see you. Will you let me see you?”</p><p>Joker’s fingers are already untying his shoes when he responds, “Nobody ever hurts me except you. You’re the only one that ever treats me like this.”</p><p>He pulls a shoe off, dropping it to the floor then starts on the other one. “I can’t be the only person that has ever hurt you Bruce.”</p><p>Bruce bites the inside of his cheek. The Joker’s right, of course he’s not the only person that has ever caused Bruce pain. He can think of a number of people that have pierced his heart over the years but the face that flashes brightest in his memories is one he carries little pieces of to this day. The slope of his nose. His eyes. The way he walks. He digs his nails into his palms harder. His eyes well up again. His throat feels tight, closing in on itself, as if to prevent him from saying something he can’t take back. He doesn’t want to tell The Joker this, he doesn’t want to tell him anything, ever. He wants him to leave, wants him to never come back, wants him to die. But the only way that’ll happen is if Bruce tells him to leave. He would never, he <em>could</em> never, not after this, and it makes him smile humorlessly. He’s so fucked up, he thinks, his mind so far away that he doesn’t even notice when Joker pulls him into his lap. “Is that you?”</p><p>He follows The Joker’s pointing finger straight to the portrait over the fireplace. He stares at it—it’s him, his mother and his father. He cries, eyes fluttering. Joker’s hands unbutton his shirt. He sniffles. “Yes.”</p><p>“Your parents?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“How old were you?” He knows what he’s really asking.</p><p>“Eight.” Bruce says. “I was eight.”</p><p>Cold fingers brush his torso. “Tell me.”</p><p>His tie is pulled off and his shirt is untucked. “Can’t.”</p><p>“You can. Go on.” His tone is syrupy sweet.</p><p>Bruce stares blankly at he and his parents’ painted faces. He remembers that he has nothing to lose. “It was dark. It was cold, too, the kind where you can see your breath. We were in an alley. Mom was holding my hand. My dad… he was first. He shot him in the chest. There was so much blood.”</p><p>Joker unbuckles his belt. “Mom was next. He tried to take her necklace, but it popped. Pearls. He killed her, too. Shot her in the chest, too. I couldn’t save her. He looked at me and I… I thought I was going to die. I knew I was going to die.”</p><p>“You didn’t.”</p><p>“I didn’t. He spared me. I don’t know why but he spared me.”</p><p>“Were you scared, Brucey?”</p><p>He nods. “Yeah. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want my parents to die.”</p><p>“I know. They were good to you, weren’t they?” Joker almost coos and Bruce hates that it makes him even more pliant.</p><p>He pauses. He nods. “My mom.” He says, staring at her face. He misses her. “She loved me.”</p><p>“Mommies are always the better parent.” Joker hums in agreement, unbuttoning Bruce’s pants. He sticks his hand inside. “Tell me about your daddy, Bruce.”</p><p>Bruce moans, a light, strangled sound and Joker palms his soft cock. His eyes lock on Thomas’ painted face and he automatically clenches them shut. “I don’t want to talk about him.”</p><p>“You’ve already started telling me a story. You wouldn’t want to stop right before you’re done, now would you Bruce? That would be rude.” He says, authoritatively and Bruce fucking cries from the whiplash of Joker and Thomas’ voices echoing each other.</p><p>
  <em>You already told your friend that you’d go to his party, you cannot and will not back out now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You will get over that cold immediately. You cannot miss school, ever.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You wouldn’t be implying that he has less rights than us, would you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For goodness sakes, get up. I didn’t hit you that hard. You need to get up before your mother sees you. You don’t want to worry her, do you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Did you just backtalk me?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Because that would be rude, Bruce.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m <em>sorry</em>,” He sobs. “Okay, I’ll tell you, I promise. Just—<em>fuck</em>, why do you talk to me like that? Like <em>him</em>? Why do you have to <em>touch</em> me like that? Why do you make me like it? I don’t want to like this. I fucking hate that I <em>like</em> this.”</p><p>Joker stops, hand stilling. He’s quiet, dead quiet, and if it weren’t for Bruce’s shuddering breaths, they could hear a pin drop. “Bruce,” his voice is even, clearer, saner than Bruce has ever heard it. If he weren’t focusing on getting himself to stop crying, he’d be scared. “Did he ever touch you like this?”</p><p>Bruce stiffens, straight as a board. His mind short circuits, he can hardly compute The Joker’s words but when he does, he feels stuck in glue.  Joker inhales. “No.”</p><p>“You’re lying.”</p><p>“I’m not.”</p><p>“Look at me.”</p><p>He can’t, he doesn’t want to. He gets up hurriedly, holding up his pants, hands shaking as he tries to button them again. “Bruce.”</p><p>“Stop.” He shakes his head.</p><p>“<em>Bruce</em>.”</p><p>“I said to <em>stop</em>. Fuck, you never listen to me. You don’t care about what I say u-unless I’m doing what you say. I’m not a toy, I’m <em>not</em>.” Bruce feels his body getting hot with embarrassment and rage. He furiously shakes his head. “A-And why would you even think that? Why would you bring that up? What <em>made</em> you think that he—” He feels claustrophobic suddenly, like he can’t breathe and this is what Joker does. He makes him feel small, like a puppet in a show that doesn’t know he’s being controlled. He can’t look at The Joker, he knows he’ll see a glint in his eye from getting Bruce riled up, just the way he probably intended. This is what Joker <em>does</em>. He sticks his hand inside of his head and fingers his brain, sifts through every single crevice and finds the weakest, rawest spots.</p><p>“Bruce,” Joker grabs him by the arm.</p><p>“Stop fucking with my head. Please. For one second, can you stop?” He pleads. “He never… he never.”</p><p>“It was just a joke.” The Joker fixes him with an inquisitive stare.</p><p>“It’s not funny.” Bruce says, softly. It’s not <em>funny</em>.</p><p>“Huh,” Joker hums, looking him up and down. Bruce’s stomach drops. He can’t possibly… know. He could never possibly…</p><p>But he’s staring like he’s an experiment and he is the scientist and Bruce wishes he had the voice to tell him to leave. He hates this part the most about being with him, near him, he hates feeling like less than a human. He hates when his feelings aren’t considered anymore, when Joker’s humanity and scarce empathy falls away and all that’s left is an insatiable, ugly monster. He doesn’t know when to stop digging, even when the shovel’s hit rock.</p><p>“There’s something else,” He says simply. He raises an eyebrow. “There’s something more.”</p><p>“Don’t. There’s not.”</p><p>“There is.”</p><p>Bruce shakes his head, bringing a trembling hand up to his forehead. He can feel his brain thumping against his skull. “You’re never satisfied. You take everything and still, you want more.” He breathes. “You broke out of Arkham and you could’ve gone anywhere but you came back here. You came back to<em> me</em>. You could’ve left.”</p><p>“Why would I ever leave you, Bruce? You need me.”</p><p>“You don’t even care that I’m already nothing, that I have nothing else to give you. You’d milk me until the last drop even if it meant I’d be <em>nothing</em>.” He replies.</p><p>The Joker smiles, wide, full of teeth. “The only way you will ever be nothing is if I am not here with you.” Bruce blinks. “The only way that you won’t have anything else to give to me is if you’re dead. The only way you will ever die, Bruce, is by my hand, and I have no intentions of ever killing you. To me, you <em>are</em> everything.”</p><p><em>And how comforting is that</em>, he wants to say but it doesn’t come out. Nothing comes out. He melts away, sliding back into the couch and The Joker follows him. He stares at the fire and mulls over the man’s words. Some part of him knows that it’s bullshit, it’s a manipulation meant to pull him further into The Joker’s darkness and it’s only the truth if he wants it to be. It’s only the truth if he lets it be the truth, and the only way Joker can sink his talons even deeper into his mind is if he allows it, he <em>knows</em> this.</p><p>He knows that he has the power to resist this, to stop this before he sinks even further into the abyss, but he does not know that he wants to resist this. Power is such a distant friend now, something he’s been fighting tooth and nail to keep within reach, something he used to have an abundant wide pool of, deep enough to give away again and again. Now, he barely has enough to fill a teacup. And honestly, would only take a teacup.</p><p><em>It would only take a teacup</em>.</p><p>He’s tired. His eyelids are heavy, and Bruce Wayne is tired. “I don’t want to tell you. Not tonight. Not ever. I don’t want to tell anybody.”</p><p>“I know.” Joker says.</p><p>Bruce looks at him. “You’re going to make me tell you anyway.”</p><p>“I want to know everything about my sweet boy. That’s not a crime.”</p><p>He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He doesn’t want to pretend anymore. His body slumps into the chair, energy draining down onto the floor. Joker’s hand comes up behind his head again, and he strokes his hair, lightly scratches at his scalp. Bruce sighs. “My father loved people. He loved Gotham.” He whispers.</p><p>He continues, “He liked children. I’d see him out at charity events for children and he’d be so happy, he’d hug them and take pictures with them and talk to them all day long. The only time he spoke to me was to scold me. I didn’t understand why. I was a child, too, but he never hugged me. He never spent time with me.” He leans closer into The Joker, resting his head on his shoulder. “He never… he didn’t touch me. But there was this one time…” Bruce trails off.</p><p>He shuts his eyes, wishing that it wasn’t still so clear, the day he went in Thomas’ office and met both him and Alfred there. He wishes he didn’t remember feeling so scared, so utterly terrified and wanting Alfred to help him. But he does. He remembers considering running out of the room. He remembers Thomas’ cold, venomous eyes. The curl of his lip in a snarl. Bending over the desk. “It wasn’t the first time he hit me. He always hit me.” Bruce laughs, humorlessly. “He hit me a lot. He slapped me, he punched me, he grabbed me. He had a way with his hands, he always managed to leave a bruise even if it was just one hit. It wasn’t the first time he hit me but it was the first time he spanked me. Alfred was there, and he liked that, he wanted Alfred to see it.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” He shakes his head, feeling Joker’s hand fall to his neck. He winces, suppressing a groan at the pain that shoots out from the contact. Joker’s fingers circle the bite. “I don’t know. He didn’t stay, anyway. He didn’t have the stomach to watch Dad beat me with a fire poker until I bled. I don’t blame him.” He doesn’t. He truly doesn’t blame Alfred, doesn’t resent him for not helping. If he’d stayed, if Thomas had an audience it probably would have been worse. Bruce bites his lip. “He liked it. Hitting me. I think—I <em>know</em> it made him feel good. I didn’t know then, but I know now. That time, when he spanked me, he did it because I stood up to bullies. I guess he didn’t want me to defend myself. Maybe if I learned how to defend myself there, at school, maybe I’d have tried it at home and maybe that thought made him angry.”</p><p>Bruce breathes. He grinds his teeth together. He drives his nails into his palms. “I know the part you want to hear about is how when he was done… h-he wouldn’t let me get up. I didn’t know why, I was just a kid but I c-could <em>hear </em>him, but I didn’t know. I didn’t <em>know</em>, I wanted to see, and he slapped me for turning around. He was looking at me, my— and he was—” Bruce clenches his eyes shut. He leans into The Joker again, impossibly closer.</p><p>“Brucey.” Joker says and it’s the first time Bruce has ever heard anything akin to empathy inside the man’s voice. He shudders.</p><p>“He didn’t touch me. He didn’t.” Bruce says, just above a whisper. “It was just one time. It was one time and then he was dead.”</p><p> Joker inhales sharply. He exhales. “He would have done it again.”</p><p>Bruce feels his cheeks wet with tears. “Yeah.”</p><p>“He would have touched you, too. He wouldn’t have been able not to.” The Joker says slowly. He pats Bruce’s hair. “He would have ruined you until you were unrecognizable. That’s what men like him do.”</p><p>Bruce sniffles. “You’re like him, a lot.”</p><p>“That says a lot more about you than it does me, don’t you think?” Joker points out. Bruce laughs. It’s not funny. “I’m different than he is.”</p><p>“You’re not.”</p><p>“He’s dead. I’m not. I love you. He didn’t.”</p><p>“You don’t love me.”</p><p>“I love you more than he ever did.”</p><p> Bruce looks up at him. “You love Batman.”  </p><p>“There is no Batman, now, Bruce. I killed him.” Joker says. “He died, just like Daddy Wayne. They had to die, Bruce. If they lived, I never could have loved you.  I’m going to love you and protect you until I die. That’s what daddies are supposed to do. <em>I’m</em> your daddy. Not him. You’re <em>mine</em>.”</p><p>Bruce puts a hand on his cheek, feels the scarred flesh underneath. He kisses him. It’s soft and so gentle and he’s grateful that Joker lets him have it. He doesn’t bite him or grab him or put his tongue in his mouth. He just lets him have it. He pulls away. “Tell me again.”</p><p>Joker doesn’t ask which part. “I love you. I’m never leaving you.”</p><p>The words make Bruce kiss him again. He knows that he should be horrified, he should be appalled, he shouldn’t be letting someone like The Joker make any sort of promise to him, but he just wants to be wanted. He wants to feel wanted, in a way Alfred never could give him. Alfred<em> tries</em> but he never could understand this, could understand the way he needs this. He can only have this with <em>him</em>, he’s the only one who understands, and Bruce just needs somebody who understands. He climbs into The Joker’s lap, thighs open on either side of him. He holds him by the jaw, resting their foreheads together. He kisses him again. “Nobody knows that. Nobody knows what he did to me. They wouldn’t believe me. Everybody loves him.”</p><p>“I hate him. I’d kill him if he wasn’t already dead. I’m the only one that’s ever going to know, Brucey. I promise.” He says in between kisses, running his hands underneath Bruce’s shirt.</p><p>“He was going to do it again.” Bruce’s voice cracks as he reiterates Joker’s previous words. “Why?”</p><p>“He’s dead.” Joker’s mouth finds his neck, the virgin side. His lips press into the skin and he lightly sucks. Bruce’s cock twitches. “I’m not. I’m here.”</p><p>“He left me. Tell me that you won’t ever leave me. Never.”</p><p>He flattens his tongue licking straight up until Bruce’s ear. He whispers, “Never.”</p><p>Bruce’s eyes flutter shut and his hips start moving, thrusting softly. He moans when his cock touches Joker’s stomach. “Want you to show me. Show me that you mean it. But, I’ve never… not with a man.”</p><p>The Joker’s hand slides up, past Bruce’s chest and onto his neck, squeezing lightly. He licks into the shell of his ear. “Daddy’s going to be your first and your last, Bruce. Do you hear me?”</p><p>“Y-Yeah.”</p><p>“Where’s your room, baby?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Joker’s laid him out on the bed, at the side of it.</p><p>He took his time removing Bruce’s clothes, dragging his fingertips over exposed skin and sucking marks into him. His entire torso is lined with raised violet skin, and it hurts, but he knows he can’t ask him to stop. This is something he needs to do and it’s also something Bruce likes—being claimed. He’s lying on the cotton sheets underneath him, watching Joker slide his underwear down slowly off of his hips as he kneels at the side of the bed. Joker’s fingers are long, hooked in the fabric of the briefs and he stops, holding the fabric down just enough so that he can see the base of Bruce’s cock.</p><p>He’s affectionate, a generous lover, Bruce thinks, and he’s surprised. He didn’t think Joker would take this slow. He didn’t think he’d be kissing him all over, licking him softly. The biting, though, and the sucking was expected. He’s biting him just above his hipbone, teeth sharp, and Bruce knows he wants to break the skin. Hickeys aren’t enough with him, he likes leaving marks that’ll last, the kind that need to heal.</p><p>He strokes the other side of Bruce’s hip softly, comforting, whilst he breaks through creamy skin. Bruce hisses, bunching the sheets beneath him in between his fists. The Joker’s eyes flit up to meet his own and he doesn’t see an apology in them, just humor. There’s blood at his lip and he’s smirking, then he’s licking it off with one stroke of his tongue. “You taste so sweet.” Is all he says. Bruce blushes. Joker pulls off his briefs in a swift motion, they’re down his thighs, puddled at his feet then thrown across the room in no time.</p><p>Joker’s hands come up under his legs, locking underneath his knees. He situates himself between Bruce’s legs and pulls, causing the slighter man to gasp. He doesn’t tell Bruce what he’s going to do, he assumes he’s going to give him a blowjob, but he’s not telling him <em>anything</em>—this is the quietest he’s ever heard The Joker and it’s making his body run wild with nerves. He finds himself wishing that the man would talk to him, fill in the gaps of deafening silence, so that he wouldn’t have to hear the angry blood rushing in his ears. He’s lost in thought, mulling over what could happen, when he feels a tongue lick straight up his perineum, stopping underneath his balls.</p><p>“Ah!” It’s ripped out of his throat. His eyes go wide, landing on Joker’s face. His eyebrows knit. “W-What—” He does it again, lower this time, the tip of his tongue brushing Bruce’s hole. Bruce makes a sound in his throat, feeling the nerves there tingle. “What are you doing?”</p><p>The Joker seems to consider this, rising higher and peering at Bruce from over his cock. “Would you prefer me not to prepare you? That’s a little extreme, Brucey, even for somebody as fucked up as you.”</p><p>Bruce swallows. His cheeks tint with red. “I don’t… I don’t know what you mean. That feels weird.”</p><p>Joker’s eyebrows hit the ceiling, realization washing over him. He smiles. “Brucey, you’re a <em>real </em>virgin?” He chuckles lightly. “You really don’t know anything about this?”</p><p>“Not with boys.” Bruce breaks eye contact. “I’ve done it with girls. I don’t know how it works like this.”</p><p>Joker’s just bubbling over with delight and Bruce wants to hide his face in his hands. “Well, aren’t you just lucky that Daddy knows exactly how it works. All you have to do is lie back and let me take care of you. Can you do that? Can you trust me?”</p><p>“No.” Bruce deadpans. “I feel like you’re going to hurt me.”</p><p>“On the contrary, I’m actually trying <em>not </em>to hurt you,” Joker laughs. “Unless that’s what you want.”</p><p>Bruce stares at him. He shakes his head in defeat. Joker mumbles a response before resuming his previous position. Bruce bites his tongue, words he wants to speak dying on it. This time, The Joker’s tongue engulfs his hole completely and Bruce clenches his teeth.</p><p>Before long he’s eating him out in earnest, kissing and sucking and licking, and Bruce’s eyes are fluttering. It feels strange being wet down there, but it feels… oddly nice. Then he stops. Joker rises again, hovering over Bruce’s body. He taps his fingers on Bruce’s mouth. “Open up.” He sing-songs.</p><p>Bruce obeys, trying to trust him. He knows what he’s doing. Joker’s fingers jam inside of his mouth and he gags, hands flying up to grip his wrist. He looks at him, but he just has an amused expression on his face. Bruce snarls. “Don’t be a brat. Suck.”</p><p>He takes a steadying breath and begins to suck on his fingers. It would be comforting if The Joker wasn’t staring down at him with a ravenous look in his eye but he is, and it’s kind of scary. “Good boy.” He says and Bruce moans. Joker smiles, taking a deep breath. He exhales on a chuckle, sticking his fingers further until they touch his uvula again. He immediately gags, gargling on Joker’s fingers. Joker finally pulls them out of Bruce’s mouth, eyeing it for a moment. Bruce watches him and he already knows what he’s going to do before he does it.</p><p>“That’s fucking gross.” He says, as Joker’s tongue slides up one of the fingers. The Joker descends off of Bruce’s chest, kneeling on the floor again. He circles Bruce’s hole with a slick finger already chilled by the air. He doesn’t give Bruce a warning, he just presses downward into the tightness, sliding his finger inside until it reaches a knuckle. Bruce bites his lip. It’s not that bad, all things considered. It doesn’t hurt, it just feels weird. He closes his eyes and tries to relax. His chest still rises heavy and fast.</p><p>He feels the finger slowly fucking into him shallowly, the tip of it hooking on the ring of his hole. Joker meant it. He’s trying. The thought makes his chest feel warm on the inside. Then, there’s another. He feels the burn this time and tries his best not to hiss but his hole is rejecting the intrusion, no matter how gentle, clamping down hard and trying to push the fingers out. He swallows. He doesn’t think this is a good idea, not anymore. Maybe he isn’t ready for this. Maybe it was too soon, too fast, <em>he </em>was too fast. He doesn’t know if he wants to have sex like this, feel anything inside of him, because it’s uncomfortable and it’s burning and stretching and—</p><p>“Fuck!” He arches off of the bed, gripping the sheets as bursts of pleasure shoot up his spine, settling inside of him. Oh. Oh, what was that? He looks at The Joker, face in a quizzical expression. The Joker looks smug. Bruce’s lips part and Joker pistons his fingers again, straight into his prostate.</p><p>“S-Shit.” Bruce says shakily, face contorted in pleasure. “What… W-What is that? What—” He trails off, panting.</p><p>“That, my dear,” Joker scissors his fingers, fucking them into Bruce at a steady pace. “Is your sweet spot.”</p><p>Bruce doesn’t ask anything else; he just feels. He just feels Joker fucking him with his fingers, feels his hard, neglected cock leaking on his belly and feels his sweet spot ringing out in pleasure. He’s moaning, soft little controlled sounds that are only coming out because he can’t stop them. He can’t help it—it feels good and it’s just fingers. He wonders briefly how Joker’s cock is going to feel. He hasn’t given that much thought, he’s been so caught up on just doing it, just giving The Joker this final piece of him, that he hasn’t ever thought how it would <em>feel</em>. He doesn’t have to wonder long.</p><p>The Joker eventually slides his fingers out of Bruce—Bruce doesn’t know when, his mind is fuzzy, all cloudy with pleasure, he just groans when he registers the loss of them. “Don’t be greedy, Brucey.”</p><p>“Why’d you stop?”</p><p>“Because it’s time for the main event.” Bruce hears a zipper. He doesn’t want to look. He’s curious, so very curious as to what The Joker might look like without layers of clothing to hide behind, but he refuses to look. He stares at the ceiling instead, holding onto the last bit of euphoria in his mind. There’s the sound of clothing being shed, dropping to the floor. The bed dips, and the hairs on Bruce’s body stand.</p><p>There’s a weight on his stomach, and, oh, The Joker is straddling him. Before he can react to the sudden switch in positions, Joker is kissing him, hungry and open mouthed. There’s tongue—sliding inside on his mouth and brushing his teeth. He’s holding the side of his face, hard, and he’s sucking his lip, hard. He won’t let Bruce move and the kiss is so very possessive, that his heart flutters. Bruce feels his cock leak, a thick line of precum connecting it to his abdomen and he blushes. Joker pulls away. He smiles, looking into Bruce’s eyes. “I’m not going to make you suck my cock this time.” He says like he’s answering a question. “I’m going to be nice. Next time, I won’t.” Bruce swallows. “I’m going to fuck your pretty little mouth and jam my cock so far down your throat that you’ll puke. And you’ll let me. Won’t you?”</p><p>Bruce’s breath hitches. “Y-Yes.”</p><p>“Such a good boy, my Brucey. Daddy’s good boy, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Yes, who?”</p><p>“Yes, Daddy.”</p><p>“Good.” Joker slides back off of Bruce and motions for him to turn his body. Bruce follows instructions jerkily, watching Joker’s face to make sure he’s got it right. When his shoulders brush the headboard, Joker nods. He crawls up the bed, right in between Bruce’s legs. He rubs his hands over his thighs. “Daddy’s going to fuck you now and you’re going to take it.”</p><p>He pulls Bruce’s legs until he’s flat on his back and hooks his hands into the back of his knees. He pushes them and Bruce takes a deep breath. With Joker directly in front of him like this, he can’t <em>not </em>look now. He spares him a glance, first looking at his shoulders, dragging his eyes down the muscles in his arms and staring at his toned chest. His muscles are proportionate to his tall stature, not too big and not too small, but just right, just perfect. Bruce has more than he does, and that’s a given. Joker’s more of a gun, explosive and knife guy. Psychopaths don’t need muscles; they don’t fist fight.</p><p>When his eyes go lower, his teeth tear through his bottom lip. Bruce doesn’t have more than he does in this department. He stares at it, mouth filling up with copper and he suddenly feels very excited and also, very inadequate. He takes in the bulbous, pink almost red cockhead, the thick veiny shaft and the full balls that hang between his legs and his hole clenches. He blinks, tearing his eyes away. He grabs the sheets again, hears Joker spit, hears him slick up his cock and then hears him spit again, smearing it on Bruce’s hole again.</p><p>He grips the back of Bruce’s left leg, and shifts closer, the head of his cock brushing Bruce’s ass. He lines himself up and Bruce is trembling. He leans into kiss Bruce on the neck softly. “Relax, Brucey.”</p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p>“Then I’ll rip the band-aid off.”</p><p>He does. It isn’t nice. Bruce feels the head jab at his hole once, twice and then he feels it tear into him with a pop and the rest of Joker’s length follows, jamming inside of him in a quick pace. Bruce screams, high pitched, pain shooting through his body and hands flying upwards. His eyes well up with tears and he pushes at The Joker’s chest. He doesn’t budge. It’s burning and he’s sure that he’s bleeding. “Out, <em>fuck</em>, get it out! I can’t—”</p><p>He only shushes him, peppering his face with tiny soft kisses. “J-Joker, take it out, please.”</p><p>“Be good, Bruce.”</p><p>“I can’t, it hurts.”</p><p>“You can and you will, it’ll get better.” The Joker says low as he slowly withdraws, stopping just at the head. He pushes back in softly and Bruce feels the inside of his ass burn from the friction. “You’re not giving me fuckin’ blue balls, Bruce. You’re not.”</p><p>Bruce recoils at the authoritative tone, worried that he’s going to disappoint The Joker. He doesn’t want to disappoint him; he wants to be good but it fucking burns. He feels Joker’s length sliding against his walls, pulling slowly inside of him and he can’t stop clenching, trying to push it out. Bruce swallows, blinking back tears. <em>Take it</em>. He can take it. Joker said that it’ll get better. “Fuck.” Joker growls, bottoming out again. “You’re so tight.”</p><p>Joker’s hand comes up to lightly grip his throat. He continues to thrust slowly and evenly, giving Bruce time to adjust. When he does adjust, hole growing slacker, Joker starts to speed up his thrusts, fucking Bruce in earnest. Bruce won’t lie about it, the sensation of being fucked is a bit weird, but knowing that he’s full of Joker makes it more pleasurable. He wonders, distantly, if this is what love really feels like. Hot, searing pain, and a promise that it’ll get better. He wonders if this all there is to it—or more specifically, if this is all he’ll ever get.</p><p>If it’s all he deserves.</p><p>Nonetheless, he’s enjoying the feeling of Joker’s cock inside of him more now, feeling it piston in and out of him at a normal pace, and his mouth is open, little sounds falling out. He’s just about to reach down and wrap a hand around his cock when Joker hits his sweet spot, causing him to cry out. “Ah! <em>Shit</em>.”</p><p>“There we go.” Joker says, sitting upwards, lifting Bruce higher and placing his legs on his shoulders. He holds him by the waist and begins to fuck him harder, aiming directly for Bruce’s prostate. “There we go, didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you—<em>fuck</em>, didn’t I say it would get better?”</p><p>Bruce doesn’t respond, he can’t, not when his mind is exploding with pleasure like he’s never felt before. He must close his eyes because he feels a harsh slap to his face. Joker growls, “Look at me. Look at who’s doing this to you.”</p><p>His eyes fly open, meeting Joker’s. The Joker’s eyes are hot, feverish and intense, pupils blown wide eating his irises. He looks like a true madman, Bruce thinks as he feels the man’s balls continuously slap his taint. He looks fucking crazy, and it’s turning Bruce on more than it should, and he can’t help grabbing a hold of his cock, letting out a high-pitched whine at the relief. The obscene amount of precome there makes for an easy, eye-rolling slide and Bruce feels like a teenager again, like he’s masturbating for the first time. He feels shy and that is <em>silly</em>, seeing as The Joker’s currently fucking the shit out of him, but he can’t help feeling a little abashed. “You’re so perfect.” Joker says, throwing his head back and letting go of Bruce’s waist, instead leaning backward and bracing his hands on the mattress behind him. He drives into Bruce harder. His hair is disheveled, wavy strands every which way, hanging on his face.</p><p>He likes this position, looking at Joker’s chest and stomach, watching rivulets of sweat slide down his skin. “You’re mine.” He utters through curses. He straightens, pausing in his movements and his head cocks. He stares down at Bruce, mouth parted and he’s holding his breath like he’s trying to hear something. Bruce can’t hear anything except his own heavy breathing, but Joker looks like he’s thinking, weighing something out in his head as he stares down at him. He reaches a hand out to touch Bruce’s face, stroking his thumb on the cheekbone. “I love you.”</p><p>Bruce’s mouth gapes. He blinks.</p><p>“You’re never going to forgive me.” The Joker laughs something maniacal, breaking through his warmth and splitting his face. “Try.” Suddenly, he pulls out, and Bruce is puzzled when he positions him differently, turning him over. Bruce is face down, facing the doorway. His hands are splayed out on the mattress and Joker grabs him by his hips, effectively pulling his ass up. He lines himself up with Bruce’s entrance. “Try to forgive me, Bruce.”</p><p>Bruce doesn’t understand what he means, he’s confused, but it melts away when Joker slides back inside of him. “So perfect. You’re <em>mine</em>. Say it.”</p><p>“I-I’m yours.” Bruce groans.</p><p>“Say that you belong to me.” He thrusts into him, draping himself over Bruce’s back and kissing him there. He straightens, clamping his hand down on the back of his neck and pushing him further into the mattress. “Say it now.”</p><p>“I belong to you.” Bruce reiterates, moaning at the feeling of rough fingers on his neck. He belongs to The Joker, he can feel it as the fingertips dig into his bite. His hand makes it’s way back to his cock, and his eyebrows knit as he feels Joker’s cock brush his prostate again.</p><p>“Thank me.” Joker grunts. “Holy fuck—thank me, Bruce. Thank me for fucking you like this.”</p><p>Bruce swallows, feeling heat swarm low in his stomach. His balls are starting to tense and he can feel the beginnings of his orgasm coming on, making his head lighter and his body tremble. “T-Thank you.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s right. You’re mine, <em>this </em>is mine.” He seethes, his ball sack brushing Bruce’s. “Not Rachel’s, not your fucking Dad’s that wanted to rape his own son, me! I’m the one that owns you. You should be grateful that I came back for you, that I <em>want </em>you. I’m never fucking letting you go, <em>ever</em>.”</p><p>That stings, really, it does. It’s salt in an open wound but Bruce doesn’t have the energy to feel betrayed. He doesn’t have the energy to feel as verbally beaten as he would have if he wasn’t currently in a state of euphoria. No, it’s okay, he thinks vaguely as Joker continues to rant, throwing shit in his face and making declarations of love. This is okay, he thinks as he strokes himself to the brink of completion. Everything has led up to this. He has no one to blame but himself. At least he’s not alone. He can’t hear anything, it’s all fuzzy and far away and his ears are ringing. “G-Gonna come.” He feels his lips form the words. His eyes are fluttering shut, and he’s going to do it, he’s going to come with Joker’s cock inside of him and then this’ll be over. Then he can rest.</p><p>He doesn’t hear anything. He should have.</p><p>In hindsight, he should have heard. From the beginning. He doesn’t until it’s too late.</p><p>“Master Wayne—”</p><p>His eyes bug out of his head. He scrambles to get up, gripping the sheets. Joker laughs behind him, loud and hysterical, almost uncontrollably. “Ah, ah, ah, not so fast.”</p><p>Joker’s hands grip his hair in a harsh, harsh, unforgivable grip, twisting the strands between his fingers and he yanks. Then, Bruce’s back is flush with Joker’s chest and he’s still fucking him, Bruce’s eyes lock on Alfred. “A-Alfr—”</p><p>Alfred’s frozen, eyes wide and mouth gaping, like he can’t process what he’s seeing, and Bruce’s face is on fire and he’s wriggling, trying to get away but he can’t. Joker’s hand slides from his hip to stroke his cock. It only takes two strokes, then he’s coming, a desperate cry ripping out of his throat, in front of Alfred, all over The Joker’s hand and his bed, and his eyes are filling up with tears.</p><p>
  <em>You’re never going to forgive me.</em>
</p><p>In hindsight, he should have known.</p><p>Joker comes right after he does, with a loud, animalistic grunt. “Mine.” He growls, sinking his teeth into Bruce’s neck for the second time. It breaks the skin immediately and Bruce screams screwing his eyes shut, feeling the warm blood gush out of the wound, slithering down the length of his neck. The most of it is caught in The Joker’s mouth, some escaping and pooling at Bruce’s collarbones diluted with saliva. When he’s had his fill, he stops shallowly thrusting inside of him and he lets his hair go and Bruce’s body crumples. Alfred isn’t there when he opens his eyes.</p><p>He wants to ask <em>why</em>, but he can’t. His throat is torn from screaming and his body is fatigued, he can feel a cloud of lethargy coming over him. He doesn’t move, he can’t move, he just lies there, tears flowing out of his eyes. Joker moves him, cuddles up behind him like they’re lovers. He positions Bruce until he’s on his chest, until Bruce can hear his heartbeat.</p><p>The Joker kisses him on his forehead.</p><p>
  <em>Try to forgive me.</em>
</p><p>He’s embarrassed, filled to the brim with shame and he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to face Alfred again; he doesn’t know how he can ever look at himself in the mirror again. He’s angry too, he can feel it simmering underneath his skin. He’s angry, so angry, and he wants to kill him. He wants to kill him as he sits in post-orgasmic haze.</p><p>He wonders if this is really what love feels like.</p><p>His eyes are heavy, and his head is rising with every breath Joker takes; there’s little he can do now. He sleeps.</p><p>Bruce Wayne sleeps.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the end. holy hell. i can't believe i just wrote that shit. i mean seriously.</p><p>anyhoo, if you enjoyed this leave a comment, i'd love to discuss! if you'd like to read other works like this about this pairing from me, please subscribe to me so you'll get emails when i post my next project. thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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